


from one to yet another

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Rating subject to change, This one's for the underwritten and unappreciated NPC ladies out here, Will add pairings and characters as they occur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An Altmer Dragonborn and serial philanderer with a checkered past attempts to flirt, charm, and sleep her way through Skyrim. This is a catalogue of those variably successful encounters.





	1. Sigrid and Nordic Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> In a series of loosely connected installments, a dauntless womanizer will attempt to flirt, charm, and sleep her way through Skyrim. Sometimes she's successful, sometimes she isn't. Sometimes there's smut, sometimes there isn't. Sometimes these chapters will be long, other times they will be almost pointlessly short. I'll likely be skipping random parts of the in-game storyline because They Do Not Concern Me. I'll also probably be playing fast and loose with some of the lore (or lack of). All I really know for sure is that this whole thing is an exercise in pure self-indulgence and is going to be a bit of a mess.

"You're pretty, I'll give you that. Just.. stay away from my husband."

Iden, genuinely surprised by the threat, glanced up from the book she had just slipped from the shelf at Sigrid's own urging that she was to make herself at home. The tome was more or less a travel guide, and with her being a foreigner with no choice in the matter of her new setting, she had assumed that it would be wise to acquaint herself with the harsh, unforgiving, and bitterly cold nation that she had always heard Skyrim to be.

What she had not thought to prepare for was the possessive hostility native to the wives of this country, who seemed to be just as harsh but much colder. Gone was the welcoming warmth of the woman who had ushered her and Hadvar into her home, fed them hot soup and warm bread, listened raptly to their tale of dragons and Stormcloaks. Now that they were alone, her husband at his forge, her daughter out to play, and the good soldier Hadvar on his way back to Solitude to place himself back in the service of the Legion, she had dropped all pretense and stared at Iden with all the friendliness of a wolf protecting a fresh kill.

Iden had incorrectly assumed she had escaped the worst of it when she had successfully dodged the headsman's axe. How wrong she had been. She leaned back against the chair and regarded Sigrid, her own face carefully neutral, though there was a small twist at the corner of her lips that Sigrid had noticed and, judging by her scowl, did not care for one bit. But Iden caught her words, the inflection, and for all their bite, the subtle pause after the word _just_ lended to her warning the hint of insecurity, and it was a request, a plea, as much as it was a threat. At this realization Iden adjusted her expression accordingly.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," she said breezily, letting her eyes speak for her a moment as her brow softened. She was a self-titled master at this game, and even this stony forge-wife would not be immune to her wiles. "Your husband isn't precisely my type."

 Sigrid failed to understand her meaning and, unsurprisingly, became offended by this remark and began to open her mouth to defend her man. But Iden quickly interrupted her. "I apologize, I forget where I am and know that perhaps I should be plainer-spoken," she said, the insult sliding from her lips with such gentleness that even Sigrid in her indignation seemed to falter. "But what I mean to say is that such a compliment coming from you means far more than it would coming from your husband."

Sigrid paused, uncertain, somehow still uncomprehending of Iden's meaning. But the Altmer was endlessly patient, being no stranger to interacting with such women, and as she stood up from the table she moved towards her slowly, languidly, almost as she were approaching a skittish foal. Like all Nords, Sigrid was tall for a human, but she had to look up as Iden came to a stop before her. She studied her face. She really was quite lovely, even as motherhood had begun to age her, planting faint creases at the corners of hazel eyes, still filled with fire. Her gaze was defiant, but there, at the curve of her cheek, was the lightest of blushes that warmed her face as Iden gazed at her. "Let me be clear, then," Iden said, abandoning subtlety, her voice low as her own hand came up to gently cup Sigrid's jaw. The Nord froze, and her lips just slightly fell apart at the unexpected touch. Iden's mouth curled, and she became the wolf, and at this shift in expression, her meaning now perfectly obvious and entirely scandalous, Sigrid blushed in full. Iden concluded: "It's your husband who should be warning me from you."

And with that, Iden released her and left the house without another word, leaving Sigrid standing in the center of the room, her hand raised to her mouth. Iden had spoken so boldly in part because she knew she would not have to deal with the consequences of her actions, for she doubted that she would have reason to visit this little peasant village again. It had been harmless fun but she had overstayed her welcome, and there were many more wives to fluster in this new world, and as she headed up the road north to Whiterun, she perhaps realized with slight reticence but equal optimism that in spite of her poor welcome that she might come to enjoy her time in this backwards little country after all.


	2. Uthgerd, the Unbroken

"Want to hear a bit of northern wisdom? You don't really know a woman until you've had a strong drink and a fist fight with her."

This proclamation caught Iden off-guard for just a moment. She was not used to being in lands where the women were so forward. But she recovered quickly as she turned to regard the woman who had spoken to her, the words slightly slurred. A true knight, in plated armor, a huge greatsword slung over her broad shoulders. Even in the dim light of the tavern she could see the scars mapping the woman's face. Not beautiful, no blushing maiden by any means, but she was entirely impressive. If Sigrid was a wolf, this woman was a bear.

"Are you buying?" Iden asked, taking her statement as an invitation and sitting across from her. The knight did not answer her immediately. Instead she waved over the serving girl and kept her eyes on Iden as she ordered. "Two mugs of the Honningbrew mead."

The drinks were served promptly. Uthgerd, as she introduced herself, watched Iden as she took a long gulp. "Can you handle that, High Elf? Or do I need to get you a glass of wine?"

Iden scoffed. "This is swill. I've had stronger meads in High Rock."

Uthgerd laughed. It was a warm, unrestrained guffaw and Iden grinned. Uthgerd's cheeks were red and splotchy, though that was due to the alcohol and a lifetime of being in the cold and had no semblance to the delicate blush of an ingénue. "Fair enough. I doubt you've had tougher fights in High Rock though."

"What is it with you Nords and brawls? This is the second such encounter I've had since I've arrived here."

"You talking about your little squabble with Mikael? A child could beat that milk-drinker in a fight. And I saw you talk your way out of that one anyway. Were you trying to cozy up to Carlotta by getting him to back off? Good luck with that. All she cares about is her kid and her little produce stand."

Iden smirked. She had recieved a compliment and some coin out of what turned out to be little more than a minor inconvenience that a stern talking-to had fixed, so she would not complain. "Speaking from past attempts?"

"She's not my type," Uthgerd said, her expression that followed anything but subtle as her eyes trailed up Iden's long frame.

Iden could not help but be delighted by her forwardness. "Must we really fight first then?"

Uthgerd laughed again. "You won't talk your way out of that. I don't make exceptions. But it'll be worth a few bruises."

Iden did not doubt that. She came upon other sorts of women very often, the type that needed and wanted to be charmed and courted, wanted to still feel like innocent maidens. Then there were women like Uthgerd, who were far less common, who would take her to bed properly and leave her wonderfully sore between the legs come morning.

Yes, she was certain it would be worth a few bruises. And that little stone tablet the Jarl was sending her to fetch had waited millennia, it could wait one more night.

Iden finished her mead. "Well, let's get this over with then. And take those gauntlets off. If we're going to do this it has to be proper."

Uthgerd stood, and, being well in her cups far before Iden had ever arrived upon the scene, was slightly unsteady on her feet. "Upon my word, this will be the most proper thing we do all evening."

The bout was mercifully short. Iden was still only wearing the robes she had stripped off the unfortunate corpse of the prisoner in the Helgen dungeons, and punching Uthgerd's plate mail would be about as pleasant as hitting a stone wall. In a completely fair fight, even if Uthgerd had been stark naked, she still would have soundly trounced the elf. But it was not a fair fight, because Uthgerd the Unbroken was drunk and slow, and even though she managed to land a blow that knocked the wind from Iden's lungs she was not able to react to the swing from the right that was feinted into a sharp left jab, the hit catching her square in the middle of her face.

She fell back against the wall, her hand immediately coming up to her broken nose. When she pulled her hand away she almost looked surprised to see red coating her fingertips. "You got me. I didn't see that coming."

The crowd that had been watching dispersed and bets were paid out. Iden, slightly bent over, one hand holding her side, mistook the comment for outrage and went on the defensive. "It's not like I _wanted_ to punch you in the face. But it's the only place I could without breaking my hand against you."

But Uthgerd was shaking her head, actually grinning as she wiped the blood away from her slightly-more-crooked nose. The fight had sobered her up. "No, not that. I didn't know you were left-handed and I never saw the hit coming. That was smart."

"Well, I sort of regret it."

"Why?"

Iden took on a voice of tragedy. "How am I supposed to sit on your face now?"

Uthgerd barked out another loud laugh and placed a hand on Iden's hip as she helped her up off the wall. Her palm was rough but her grip was warm and just firm enough, a pleasing preview of the night ahead. "Get me one more drink and I won't even notice if you break my nose all over again."

"Fine. One more drink. But I'm getting one too. I think you cracked one of my ribs. And _you're_ paying."


	3. Irileth on Respect and Rejection

"As you can see, it's clearly First Era, or maybe even earlier."

Iden nodded absently at the court wizard's prattling, though Farengar's comment had been in no way directed towards her. Her own attention was on the small, hooded woman to whom he had actually spoken, who was bent over the stone tablet Iden had just retrieved from that dusty crypt. She thought she recognized her voice, but there was no way to know for sure, not without seeing her face.

"Give me some charcoal and parchment," the woman said impatiently. Iden watched as she rolled the rubbing up and tucked it into the satchel at her hip. "This will be helpful," she said, cryptically. Farengar nodded, even more cryptically. "Good, I hope you'll keep me updated."

Any unnecessarily mysterious reply the woman might have made was lost as Irileth rushed into the chambers. The Housecarl's eyes were wide, her pupils nearly large enough to shadow the bright crimson irises. She was very excited. "Farengar! There's been a dragon attack at the watchtower. The Jarl will want you up here for the briefing."

Her stare switched over to Iden and her eyes immediately narrowed as if she were recalling their first encounter, which had begun with Irileth pointing a sword at Iden's throat, and had ended when Iden made some tawdry remark about how she wondered if Irileth's tongue was as quick as her blade.

"I suppose you should come too," she uttered with great misgiving.

Iden nodded distractedly and looked over at the hooded woman, who was packing her things up as if a dragon attack was the least troubling thing for her to hear about today. "Seems like things are getting interesting, aren't they?" she said as an attempt at friendliness.

But the woman brushed passed her and said, without a single glance in her direction, "get away from me."

Iden was taken aback by the hostility, though she had little chance to continue to be insulted when Irileth threw a withering look over her shoulder that would make a man tremble. Iden followed with a sigh. She paid minimal attention to the frightened guard's story. A huge dragon attacking the tower, a constant stream of impossibly hot flame, talons and teeth that had picked some of the guardsmen up and dropped them from hundreds of feet above the ground so when they returned to earth they cracked like eggs, all that bluster. When Jarl Balgruuf told her to accompany Irileth and a contingency of guards to the tower, she replied in proper fashion: "Of course, my Jarl. I look forward to facing down the dragon. And should I fail it will be a grand thing for me to die serving this illustrious country, which has given to me so much in so little time."

When they were dismissed and jogging side by side towards the tower, no dragon yet in sight, Irileth looked over at Iden with open disdain. "Don't think I didn't catch that little comment you made to the Jarl. Just because he didn't notice your disrespectful tone doesn't mean I won't make it hot for you if you try it again."

Iden shook her head sadly. "He's got you all kinds of tied up, doesn't he? You even get offended on his behalf for insults he didn't perceive."

Irileth looked away from her. "The Jarl is an honest, straightforward man, and he expects the same from others. It isn't in him to believe the worst in someone, though I'm starting to realize that you should be his exception. Especially since he's placing so much faith in you."

This last comment was laced with bitterness. Iden glanced at her pityingly. "Come now, surely it gets tedious pining over someone so oblivious. A capable woman like yourself could get anyone they wanted."

"Your vague flattery might work on the empty-headed tavern wenches that I'm sure you favor, but I'm not a fool. And you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Are you calling tavern wenches fools?"

Irileth gave her a look that was dripping with contempt though she had no chance to reply as they had reached the edge of the watchtower. They scanned the area from afar. The destruction seemed to be localized around the ruins, patches of grass still burning and the corpses of the doomed guards, some scorched beyond recognition and others torn to tatters littered the ground. Thin trails of black smoke rose heavenward, mingling with the scent of charred flesh. The guards that had followed them from Whiterun had fallen into a solemn, uneasy silence.

"Spread out, look for survivors," Irileth ordered, drawing her blade. The others, Iden included, quickly followed suit. "We need to find out where it might have flown off to."

They had just approached the tower when a lone survivor, wild-eyed and frantic, scrambled down from the ruins, his hands and knees bloodied and torn and his tunic blackened. "No! Get back!" he shouted, looking like a man who had truly faced down terror. "He's still around here! Hroki and Toor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it. He was too fast."

A roar rolled in from the mountains to the south and it carried across the plains. The entire group froze.

"Kynareth save us," the frightened guard said, his voice wavering. "He's coming back."

No sooner had he spoken that the beast revealed himself above the snowy peaks and came barreling towards them, his great wings unfurled. Irileth immediately began to bark out orders, and the men drew their bows, but all it took was one pass by the monster to halve their numbers as he circled them, spitting fury and fire, leaving the unlucky guards flailing in agony upon the ground as they burned alive. Iden attempted to throw bolts of lightning at the beast but he was almost impossible to track in the air and he kept just out of range.

"The wings, shoot the damn wings!" Iden shouted, her order hardly audible above the screaming of the guardsman and the roar of the dragon and the flame. But Irileth had heard her and, steadying her bow, launched an arrow that pierced the paper-thin membrane at the dragon's wing and he twisted and screeched, unable to right himself as he crashed into the earth, the cloud of dust he created as he thrashed about nearly blinding. But Iden took what was going to be her only chance and charged him from the side, ducking beneath the tattered, reddened wing and sliding her blade into the soft scales of his belly and then up into his throat.

He screamed plaintively, the reek of his blood thick as it poured from the mortal wound, and with a final shudder he collapsed, massive, his huge head dropping to Iden's feet and the very ground shaking beneath his weight.

For a long moment all who had survived the vicious onslaught just stood there, staring at the creature's body. Iden was drenched in blood and nearly everyone had been burned to some extent. Irileth, quicker-minded than the rest, was the first to speak.

"Well, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually grateful that we brought you along. I- what's happening?"

Iden, suitably distracted by Irileth's praise, had not noticed that the dead dragon had begun to glow. A strange wind picked up, seemingly out of nowhere, and the wisps that rose were imbued heavily with something akin to magicka yet much stronger and much older. Everyone took a collective step back, and Iden flinched as the force that had seemed to arise from the dragon flew first towards her and then within her. It was impossible to describe. It was as though she had gained new life. She felt younger, quicker. She felt powerful. Her blood, which she felt had always run hot in her veins, rushed as though it were liquid fire. She gasped. Light illuminated her mind, and a word, one she had not recognized when it had appeared before her in the Barrow, was suddenly within her comprehension.

 _Force_.

"I can't believe it," a guard stammered, blood running down his arm, though he seemed to take no notice. "You're... you're Dragonborn! Like the stories and the legends. You can absorb their souls. That's what you did, isn't it? Look."

She looked. The dragon, formerly just a corpse, looked as if he had been stripped bare by starving vultures. No muscle or scale or blood remained, only ivory bone. Iden felt it deep in her own body, in her own sinew and flesh, that yes, that was exactly what had happened.

The guards began to bicker amongst themselves about the legend of the Dragonborn. She distinctly heard one man insist that there was "no way the gods would've chosen an elf" for such an honor, but Iden's attention was on Irileth. The Dunmer, superstitious and cynical like most members of her race, look unconvinced.

"What say you, Housecarl?"

She gave the offending guardsman a severe look. "Hmph. I think you fellows should put more stock in your sword-arm than in myths. Here's a dead dragon. That is something I can understand. Now we know we can kill them."

But the loyal guard, a true son of Skyrim, was unrelenting and he shook his head dismissively at her doubt. "You wouldn't understand, Housecarl, you ain't a Nord."

"I've been all across Tamriel," she snapped, and the guard shrinked back as he remembered his place. "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. Now I want you all to stay here and wait for reinforcements. I'll send a medic by soon."

She looked to Iden, all business. "We need to get back to Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."

They walked back to the city in silence. Iden kept glancing meaningly over at Irileth, who, when her scowl did nothing to deter the Altmer, finally sighed in resignation. "What?"

"Oh, I was waiting for you to finish complimenting me. That little stunt I pulled with the dragon's soul or whatever it was cut you short, and I thought you might have more to say."

Irileth frowned at her. "Yes, I suppose I'm grateful. I don't know what you are, or what you did, and honestly, I don't really care. All I'm happy for is that you're on our side, because for all my misgivings about you, you clearly know how to handle yourself in combat."

"You'll make me blush, going on like that. Just how grateful are you?"

Iden quickly raised her hands in surrender when Irileth's answering glare was less than encouraging. "I'm teasing you, Housecarl. I know when I've lost out."

Irileth shook her head. "I take it you're not used to rejection. You look like I've just taken a shit on your mother's grave."

"Oh no, I despised my mother. If you did that, I'd probably ask you to marry me."

This comment brought a small, flat smile out of Irileth. She regarded Iden with something that was very nearly akin to friendliness. "You're a bit of a hound, stranger, but I do mean it when I say I'm glad you're on our side."

Iden grinned, feigning bashfulness. "Well, thank you Irileth, you big flirt. If you're not careful you're going to give me the wrong idea."

And just like that, the signature scowl replaced whatever hint of a smile that had briefly graced the Dunmer's face.


	4. Lydia: the Professional, and Lynly Star-Sung

Housecarls are of a very ancient and widespread origin. In some nations they are referred to as orderlies or squires. In Morrowind, they are simply called slaves, and in Iden's birthplace they were referred to as courtiers, which, like most things in Alinor, perhaps lended to them a more noble intonation that what was intended. But they have long served a valuable role to their masters, who often come to rely heavily upon them for the most minor or major of tasks. Iden, with her distant noble and then military background, was no stranger to interacting with such an order. As she regarded Lydia, who Jarl Balgruuf had just gifted her in light of her recent distinctions, she was overcome by a familiar nostalgia, for even though she adored women mostly without discrimination and considered herself fair to those who had served beneath her, she had, in the past, possessed the misfortune of having been assigned the most abysmal of orderlies and here Lydia's gender did her no favors. Perhaps misreading her generally easy-going temper as leniency, some had stolen from her, or ruined her arms or armor, or ate her meals, or misplaced her possessions, and it was not long before even the ones she found attractive were met with immediate contempt and cruel words. Lydia, for her part, stood at attention wearing a perfectly respectful expression and did not falter in the slightest beneath Iden's severely displeased gaze.

"Another ungrateful brute palmed off on me," she sighed, still holding in one hand the axe that the Jarl had also gifted her, a clunky thing of Nordic design that she had absolutely no intention of using. "If it isn't _too_ much of a hassle," she spat, endeavoring to inject as much vitriol in her command as she could, "hold this a moment, will you?"

Lydia took the offered weapon that was shoved at her without even a blink, and her expression did not change, but a clear acknowledgement of the order did fall smoothly from her lips. "I am _sworn_ to carry your burdens, my Thane," she said, a most gentle touch of reproach in the recital, and Iden's dour mood at having been met with rejection not once but twice that day immediately lightened at Lydia's subtle insubordination.

"Oh, you and I might get along well after all. A few ground rules then: don't lie to me and don't steal from me. If I give you a command, I expect you to follow it. Don't try and suck up, and none of that simpering little bowing either. If I speak to you, look me in the face. Otherwise, keep it up, and keep that axe as well. It's hideous and I won't deign to use it."

"Very good, ma'am," Lydia intoned, the same hint of irony present earlier still there. Iden was pleased.

"Come on then, it seems you and I have a mountain to climb," she said, and with that they set off on unknown paths, Iden in the lead and her devoted-out-of-necessity housecarl following loyally just behind, the two of them already destined to be the dearest of companions.

  
The journey from Whiterun to the village of Ivarstead at the foot of the mountain had proved to be far less tedious than Iden feared it would be. Lydia, like any good housecarl, acted as a capable guide, was more than serviceable in combat and, most importantly, talked very little. This served Iden well because she liked hearing the sound of her own voice, and as they wound their way up along the trail that followed the waterfalls, Iden encumbered the gallant Lydia with a different sort of burden: detailed accounts of her romantic escapades, so that by the time the sun had begun to fall the housecarl's ears were burning.

"How was I supposed to know she was the poor man's widow? _She_ was the one who came onto me, after all. I told them as much, they wouldn't hear it. But any way, that was the last time I was invited to a funeral in Valenwood," Iden concluded. Lydia felt a little sick to her stomach, which was a justified notion considering what happened at Bosmer funerals, but being fully committed to her designation, and being a consummate professional, she simply nodded in sympathetic agreement as they walked alongside the river. Ivarstead was just ahead, quiet in the evening murk. The Throat of the World loomed above, stark white and ominous. Iden regarded it a moment and sighed dismally, as if she were an ill-fated actor in a series of events over which she had no control over. In many ways, this sentiment was incredibly accurate.

They quickly found the inn. Within the warm walls was a conglomerate of tired-looking individuals, all of them appearing to be locals: hard-faced millers and hunters, mountain-folk as stony as the peak they lived in the shadow of. The only person present who seemed to have the light of life within them was the barmaid, doubling as the bard, and when Iden caught attention of her she promptly decided how she would be occupying herself that evening. Lydia looked weary, so Iden handed her some coin and her pack.

"Get us two beds in separate rooms. Put my pack in mine. And after that go ahead and buy yourself some supper and something to drink if you'd like. You're dismissed for the evening."

Lydia gratefully excused herself and went off to fulfill her orders with impeccable care. Iden found herself a seat at a table in the corner and waited patiently. The barmaid had noticed her but was caught up in a conversation between herself and two men that she seemed unable to extract herself from.

The first man, long-haired and arrogant with youth, was asking her for romantic advice yet would not allow her to get a single word in each time she tried. His friend, meanwhile, was insisting that there was nothing more romantic than fishing together. The first man made a comment that seemed to hint that the friend was alone due to his singular love for fishing and nothing else. The barmaid simply shrugged as they began to argue and, again catching Iden's eye, graciously excused herself from their spot at the fire and approached with a large smile on her face.

Countless romantic successes and just as many failures had turned Iden into something of a shape-shifter. Blessed with a degree of androgyny, she could mostly present herself as she wished, pretty in a certain light, handsome in another. If they wanted gallantry, she would provide. If they wished to have control, she could cede that as well. If they did not know what they wanted, Iden could still typically accommodate them. As the barmaid came nearer, Iden watched her face and her eyes, and, adjusting accordingly, the smile she placed upon her own lips was soft and sweet.

"Good evening, my lady. I'm sorry for the wait," the barmaid said, slightly flustered. Thick, warm, true northern accent, with a rolling tongue. Iden was immediately charmed.

"Not at all," she demurred. "The trials and tribulations of men in love are dire ones indeed."

The barmaid grinned. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"What's your favorite?"

"Well, we're told to recommend the Black-Briar reserve, since Lady Black-Briar's distilleries are in the Rift, but even if we weren't told to do that, it really is the best mead we sell here."

"With a pitch like that I can't tell if you're a terrible saleswoman or a master at your craft," Iden teased, "but I'll take it. And a bowl of whatever soup you've made, if it's still warm."

The barmaid smiled and left. Iden sat back in her chair, let the heat of the fire wash over her. Her eyes were closed when she returned, and she was genuinely embarrassed to find that she had almost fallen asleep at the table.

"How's the soup?" the barmaid asked, watching as Iden took a spoonful. It was hot, and flavorful, and Iden told her as much.

"I thought you'd be more concerned with what I think about the mead," Iden commented, noticing when the barmaid's eyes dropped slightly.

"If I may speak plainly, I-" but she caught herself. Iden tilted her head, ushering forth her most reassuring of expressions. "Please do. There are few things more refreshing than honesty."

She took a breath. "To be frank, I don't really give a damn if the mead is good or not. The Black-Briars and their swill can rot."

Iden knew just enough about the political intrigue in this country to know that these words said to anyone else would have been considered treasonous, especially in the Rift, but the barmaid seemed to understand that the foreigner at her table likely had no ties to any sort of dealings in the region and took a chance. A chance that Iden would be sure to reward.

"Sounds like there is quite a story there," Iden urged gently. The barmaid smiled sadly. "I suppose there is, but... I'm still working, and Wilhelm will be cross with me if I stay over here too long."

"When are you off?"

"In about half an hour or so."

Iden smiled. "I will still be here, if you wish to talk after."

The barmaid blushed prettily and nodded. "I'm Lynly."

True to her word, Lynly was released after about half an hour or so, and even though Iden was on the verge of exhaustion she waited for her, taking the opportunity to peruse the travel guide she had stolen, perfectly by accident, when she had fled Alvor and Sigrid's home in such haste.

When Lynly sat down across from her, her hands wrapped around a mug for herself, her eyes were bright but melancholy. Iden recalled Irileth's disparaging remark about tavern wenches being empty-headed fools. She had found, in her own experiences, that the origin stories of the wenches, the barmaids and the bards were often the most fascinating, and the most tragic.

Lynly had once been in love with, and betrothed, to Sibbi Black-Briar, the middle child of clan matriarch Maven Black-Briar, who, according to Lynly, held a great amount of influence in the region and had good friends in high places within the Empire.

"He had all the good qualities of his family. Black hair and a handsome face. Smart, like his mother. He was first in line to eventually take over her business dealings. I thought the jealous stupidity and aggression of his older brother had skipped over him, like it did his sister, but I was wrong. He stabbed my own brother to death in a drunken rage, just because he stood up for me. I adored my brother. I held him as he died. When the guards came to arrest Sibbi, he swore he'd kill me too. And if he did, no one would stop him. He's only locked up because Maven wanted him to be, just to keep up appearances. She's more powerful than the Jarl there. So I left Riften and came here. I don't miss that awful city, or Sibbi, but I miss my brother terribly."

Lynly was teary-eyed and her lower lip had begun to quiver, and Iden realized with a small amount of relief that nothing strenuous would be taking place tonight, not with Lynly in this state. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, looking down at her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sure you didn't travel all this way just to watch a stranger cry."

"I've travelled much further for far less," Iden reassured her, and Lynly laughed a little.

"Are you a pilgrim, here to walk the seven thousand steps?"

"I am," Iden said with a sigh, not fully comprehending until that moment that the idea of climbing that blasted mountain at sunrise was the least appealing thing she could imagine doing.

Lynly's lips twisted slightly, as if doubting that she should say what she was about to say. "I mean no offense by this, but the pilgrimage... well, it's always been sort of a Nordic tradition. I've never seen an elf come through here to do it. In fact, I hardly see elves here at all, ones like you, at least. High elves. Unless they're with the Thalmor. But you seem different. From anyone that has passed through, elf or man."

It was Iden's turn to look down at her hands. Lynly was more perceptive than she had given her credit for. "I arrived here under... unique circumstances, with a somewhat convoluted history behind me."

"Perhaps you could tell me about it sometime."

"Perhaps," Iden said, and Lynly, understanding that this had signaled the end of the conversation, stood from the table. She lingered there a moment, then she rounded the table to where Iden still sat and put her hand on top of hers.

"My real name is Svidi," she whispered, her face close. "Some day, after you've made your pilgrimage and have left your somewhat convoluted history behind you, you should come visit me again."

Iden smiled. "I believe I'll do that."

"I do hope so. A bard always needs stories, and I bet yours would make a beautiful song."

With that, she left, and Iden, exhausted, did not have it in her to tell her that there was nothing all that beautiful about it.


	5. Alva

"Aren't you the pretty one? I bet all the men chase after you."

"Why limit myself?" was Iden's immediate reply, made before she had even fully turned to address whoever had spoken to her. Another Nord, somehow paler than the rest, with dark eyes, red lips, and an outfit that revealed a surprising amount of skin considering it was snowing out. She dripped danger and sex appeal in almost ridiculous proportions. Morthal, situated within a marsh in what seemed to be an honest attempt to one-up the rest of the country in terms of inhospitality, had appeared to be about as dismal a village as one could be. At least Iden had thought so, until she had laid her eyes upon this particular specimen.

The woman seemed pleasantly surprised by her comment, so she smiled, fanglike canines bright-white beneath the lanterns along the dock. "Why, indeed."

To say Iden was intrigued was a fair understatement. When she had left Lydia at the inn and stepped out into the cold, citing her weariness at spending another evening inside a tavern, she had assumed that, at most, she might come upon an interesting shop or two, maybe engage in some harmless flirtation with a local who found her novel and new. She had not expected to be seduced by a vampire. So as she stood outside the apothecary on the walkway above the water, she thanked whatever gods she still had on her side that she had thought to buy herself a cure-all. She had planned on using it against whatever foul illnesses the skeevers in Ustengrav were sure to carry, but if the fates decreed that it was destined to her as a precaution against a different sort of affliction, then so be it.

The woman looked her over. Her nostrils flared and her eyes darkened as she took on a malicious cast. Her voice was a low drawl when she spoke again. "And where are you off to this evening?"

"I suppose it's wherever you keep your coffin," Iden replied, weary of beating around the bush. The hike from High Hrothgar to this dreadful place had been agonizingly long, and she was in no mood for games. And she knew vampires better than she might like to admit, but was aware of the fact that they liked to play with their food, and if Iden did not urge things along they would be out here trading innuendos all night. Luckily for her, the woman did not seem to mind, and she did not react at being found out.

"So rare to find a sheep who knows what they want. But you're no sheep, are you? You certainly don't smell like one."

Iden did not answer and the woman did not wait for her to. Instead, she smirked and with a curled finger beckoned for her to follow.

They did not have to walk far. When they reached the woman's home further down the dock they were greeted at the door by a stricken looking man with an ashen face.

"Alva," he droned flatly, looking at the both of them with no real recognition. "My love, it's so good to-"

But Alva cut him off. "Clear out for the night, dear, I've got a guest I must attend to, but I'll see you in the morning."

He nodded and left without another word, his head bowed in total deference. Iden watched him go and turned back to Alva, who was already in the process of removing what little clothing she had on. "Your thrall seems nice."

Alva laughed. "He's a widower. He's had a hard time. But it won't last much longer. I've grown weary of him. It's nearly time to let him go."

She stood at the foot of the mattress, bare-breasted in the dancing light of the fire. Iden had been about to jokingly ask the purpose of the bed but for starters she realized that this was one bedfellow where it might be better to keep her mouth shut. Additionally, she was far too distracted to pay much mind to something as insignificant as that. With one hand Alva released her dark hair from its place at the back of her head, and with the other she used a crooked finger to signal Iden to her. "Don't worry," she said, her voice low. "I won't make you my thrall. There's something special about you. I could smell you before you'd even come to Morthal. Your blood smells like fire and smoke. Like something ancient. Older than even I am. You're no sheep. But you're no wolf either."

Up to this point her hands had been traveling rather aimlessly across Iden's armor, loosening a strap here, undoing a buckle there. Iden allowed it, Alva's melodic voice and her gentle touch making her feel safe, warm, compliant. She closed her eyes. She could feel a huff of air very close to her lips. Alva's breath smelled like copper.

"I don't want to own you," Alva whispered, leaning up and kissing her, all sharp teeth that moved from her mouth to her throat where her jugular visibly pulsed beneath her skin. The vampire took a deep breath and dragged her tongue along it. "I just want to taste you."

Iden did not even snicker at this silly line, even though it sounded like something taken from a monologue in _The_ _Lusty_ _Argonian_ _Maid_. From anyone else it would have been entirely ridiculous, but coming from Alva, it worked just fine, if the heat blooming between her thighs as the vampire reached down between them was any indicator.

At some point during this exchange Iden's armor and smallclothes had been removed in full. She had not noticed and was even surprised when she was gently tossed back onto the bed and felt the furs beneath her bare back. Iden was vaguely aware of the fact that her mind was not entirely her own and she found that she did not really mind, though maybe that was the point. She was having too good of a time to worry much about whatever sort of vampiric mind-meld this was and raised no protest as Alva straddled her, bringing her lips back to Iden's throat, her hands resting on her breasts, the thumbs circling gently as Alva's teeth pressed against flesh. Iden gasped sharply.

"Patience," Alva chided, sliding down Iden's body, her tongue flicking against a nipple before she moved yet further south. "I'll get to that delicious-smelling blood of yours in time. But there are other parts of you I wish to taste first."


	6. Delphine and the beginning of a beautiful friendship

Iden was in a rare temper.

"I _cannot_ believe this," she repeated for the hundredth time as she stalked across the bridge to Riverwood, the cursed note which had forced her return to this dull little place still clutched between her fingers. She was cold, exhausted, frosted in the bone dust of freshly-perished draugr, and she had finally decided that she had had quite enough. "The nerve of these people. Where do they get off? Sending me on these pointless little errands as if I were a common courier. I won't have it."

Lydia, who had maintained herself against this onslaught with divine patience, which had continued non-stop since they had left Ustengrav, no sacred horn in hand, simply shrugged in agreement.

"And this absurd little bit here, ask for the attic room? Oh, I'll be asking for more than just that. Whoever had the gall to do this better be prepared for it. And I won't be kept in any attic room either."

With that ominous declaration they entered the Sleeping Giant. Since it was the middle of the morning in Skyrim there were of course a few locals already deep in their cups, likely still on the spree from the night previous and well into working their way through the entire stock of spirits and ales in order to start their day off right.

The innkeeper, a small, furtive-looking Breton with shifty eyes, regarded Iden with alarm and something akin to remembrance when she approached her, but Iden, still in the midst of her fit, entirely failed to recognize her. "Yes," she snapped, drawn up to her full height and absolutely dwarfing the woman. "I need an attic room. It's a fool's request, I know, because you very clearly do not have an attic room, yet here-"

"Attic room?" the innkeeper said, befuddled by this stranger's aggressiveness, her eyes growing even wider at the request. "No, I don't have one of those, but if you'll step this way I'm sure I can accommodate you."

"Yes, I'm sure you can," Iden mimicked.

"Follow me then. You and I need to talk."

As they entered another room, obviously the proprietor's own quarters, with Iden still muttering complaints, it was becoming evident that even the innkeeper was rapidly reaching the end of whatever hospitality she was capable of, and was perhaps upset at seeing just who and what had shown up in response to her summons, because when the three of them finally stood in the bedroom she slammed the door shut behind her with little restraint and stalked over to a dresser, which clicked open as she ran her hand along the back, revealing a hidden passage to a basement.

Iden was unimpressed. "Why didn't you just have me ask for a basement room then? I haven't seen a single building in Skyrim with an attic. It's far too cold, and-"

"Just shut up and get down there," the innkeeper hissed.

Once they were down the stairs Iden and the furious little innkeeper stared hard at each other from across a table, which was littered with maps and charcoal rubbings and texts which all concerned the lore of dragons and the Dragonborn mythos. At the edge, on top of a haphazardly arranged pile of scrolls, was what Iden assumed to be the horn she had been sent to fetch.

"Are you a fan of mine?" Iden asked, regarding the mess with amusement as she found herself finally out of the cold and back within her element.

The innkeeper was far less amused. "If you really are what they say you are, then you'll be useful to me. But otherwise, no, based on our encounter so far I wouldn't say I'm much of a fan."

"What all have you heard? Hopefully only good things," Iden said meaningly, giving the woman a wink.

She continued to glare but sniffed and stood straighter, assuming a business-like air. "The group of people I work for have been looking for a Dragonborn for a long time. A very long time. If you really are one, then you're going to play an essential role in whatever happens ahead. But I'm not entirely convinced."

"I remember you," Iden said suddenly, her memory jolted by the innkeeper's signature vagueness. "You're that awful little woman who was so rude to me at Dragonsreach. The one who insisted on vapid obscurity just for the sake of it. I didn't appreciate it then and I don't appreciate it now."

But the woman shook her head. "I can't trust you. I don't trust anyone as a rule, but you're an Altmer. And you're clearly dangerous. And I don't know what you're doing in Skyrim or what your motives are, but this whole thing smells like a Thalmor trap, and until I'm certain that you are what you say you are, you'll have to be content with obscurity."

Iden did not even seem to notice the bulk of what she had said and instead found one thing to latch onto. "Ooh, bigotry. That's rich, coming from a Breton."

The woman laughed humorlessly. "Are you even hearing yourself? You're clearly one to talk."

Iden, offended, placed her hand over her heart. "Me? A bigot? Look, if there's anything you could rightly accuse me of, it's a touch of classism, but that's entirely not my fault, it's my upbringing."

"Shut up. We'll never get anywhere at this rate. The point is, I know where the next dragon attack is going to be. I want us to go there, kill the thing, and have you prove to me that you are Dragonborn. Simple."

Iden smiled coldly. "Grand. You hear that, Lydia? We're going on another little jaunt. I'm sure you're just as thrilled about that as I am."

Lydia, ever the professional, wanted no part in these tense negotiations and merely sighed loudly in response.

"Yes, that's about what I think of it as well," Iden said bitterly, turning back to the woman. "So, where are we off to then? Some blasted little hovel with plenty of ice and snow, I hope. I do want the complete Skyrim experience, and I've yet to encounter the joys of frostbite."

"You're in luck," the woman said, entirely at the end of her rope as she pointed with somewhat excessive force at a small red X at the far eastern edge of the map they were surveying, right at the base of the mountains. Her voice had lost all restraint and she spoke with open contempt. "Because we're heading to Kynesgrove. And oh, do they have snow."

Delphine, as she had finally introduced herself, had not been lightly teasing when she said there would be snow. They arrived in Kynesgrove in the midst of a blizzard, in the dead of night, with almost zero visibility. "Fine conditions for fighting a dragon," offered Iden above the howling wind as the village's innkeeper came rushing towards them through the haze, her eyes wide and frantic as she harped on about the monstrosity that had revealed himself in the sky just moments previous and then disappeared into the mountains eastward. This grim reality on its own was miserable enough, but poor Delphine, in an attempt to establish her place, had tried to lead the entire way over, an excursion which had taken more than half the day to complete and, due to her height, she was forced to take about two steps to keep up with just one of Iden's and Lydia's long strides, so even in these frigid temperatures she was sweating and huffing as they ascended the icy slope towards the dragon mound.

"The only point that this silly venture is going to prove is that we're all fools," Iden continued miserably, about as unhappy as she had ever been as they struggled up the incline.

Delphine, completely exhausted and rudely forced to come to terms with the situation she had found herself in, finally turned on Iden entirely. "You are the most insufferable woman I've ever met. Gods help me, I hope you aren't the Dragonborn, because the thought of spending another second with you is-"

A deafening roar cut off whatever heartwarming remark she sought to make. The three of them looked up. Vaguely, at the summit, they could make out a massive, dark shape, hovering just above the ground, shrouded by the driving snow.

"Please don't forget what you wanted to say, Delphine, because I'd love to hear your thoughts on the matter when you realize I'm exactly what I said I was," Iden said with mock cheer.

When they reached the top of the slope and had crouched behind the cover of a large boulder they perceived many corpses and the blood of Imperial and rebel alike, the remains of a skirmish that the dragon's arrival seemed to have interrupted. Even nearly snowblind, Iden immediately knew that this was the same dragon that had attacked Helgen, looked down upon her with a malicious scarlet gaze as she was laid across the chopping block. She felt it in her blood, a primal burning that made it clear to her that this beast was her destined nemesis.

He was speaking in his guttural, deep tongue, words from before the birth of man or mer that evoked an instinctive understanding within her. Tendrils of an ancient power moved between him and the mound. It was an exchange similar to when she had taken the first soul within herself.

"He's raising that one from the dead," she murmured. Delphine swung her gaze over. "How do you know that?"

But Iden shrugged her shoulders vaguely. "I just know."

Any further elaboration was impossible. The very earth shattered beneath their feet, a rumble that made them sway and shift. A skeletal dragon emerged from the fissure at the mound, screaming as if in agony. The huge black dragon spoke to it almost soothingly, and the raised dragon glowed, flesh and scales reforming.

"We need to move now before he can fly off," Iden decided, and with that she leapt from their hiding place and charged. The raised dragon, in immediate recognition of his foe for what she was as he smelled her blood, released a furious roar and a burst of flame, one that Iden dodged deftly as she rolled beneath him to slice at the unprotected hide beneath his belly. The intrepid Lydia had rounded behind him and was striking at his legs, and Delphine loosed a volley of arrows from afar. Caught entirely off-guard by this vicious assault after countless ages of death the dragon fell with a pitiful moan, collapsing before he had even a chance to unfurl his wings. The large black dragon that had raised him was long gone, though his furious roar still echoed through the peaks.

"I'll be damned," Delphine said in awe, out of breath as she regarded the creature. "We actually did it, I- wait, what's-"

Iden knew what was coming and closed her eyes, the power washing over her like a wave, and the dragon once more returned to bones as she took his essence within herself. Lydia, not present to witness the first time this had happened, observed in stoic silence, bowing her head slightly, as she was just as affected by the scene as any true child of Skyrim would be.

Delphine's reaction was just as subdued, and as the glow subsided she regarded Iden with a certain degrees of both resignation and respect. "Alright," she said, after several long moments. "Alright. So you are Dragonborn. You've proven it. Now I suppose you get to ask the questions."

Iden gazed at her triumphantly. "Wonderful. I have plenty. First, how do you get off on being such a resentful wretch?"

"Do you have anything serious to say?" Delphine snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, any wonderment she had derived from what she had just witnessed snuffed out like a candle.

Iden sighed. "Fine. What's your angle? Who are you with?"

When Delphine answered it was with obvious reticence. "I'm one of the last living members of the Blades. And I-"

At the mention of the Blades Iden flinched. Delphine noticed this and narrowed her eyes. "What?"

Iden's face was unreadable. A new wash of recognition had enveloped her, making perfect sense of her strange notion at Dragonsreach about having seen Delphine somewhere else before, and the expression she wore as she regarded her now was incredibly conflicted. "I'm... well-acquainted with your order."

Delphine studied her suspiciously. "How, exactly, are you well-acquainted with the Blades?"

"Well, it's a funny thing," Iden said, shifting on her feet either from the cold or from nerves, "but you know how you mentioned the Thalmor earlier? I... was one of them. More specifically, I was an Eye of the Queen."

Delphine was still for a long moment. When she spoke again her voice was very low. "I remember you," she said, her confusion rapidly turning to hateful malice as painful memories flooded her. "You were there when they sacked Cloud Ruler Temple. You were their Illusionist. I remember your face, even with the hood you hid beneath."

Delphine's hand flew to her sword. Lydia, without saying a word, immediately pulled her own. Iden raised her hands. "Come now, no need to be rash. You and I clearly have some things to talk about. I'd prefer to speak in the inn down the hill, by the fire and over a few drinks, than have to kill you and leave you to rot, just like the rest of your Blades."

The ease with which Iden presented this proposal made it clear to Delphine that she was entirely serious and, with Lydia by her side, perfectly capable of making good on either alternative. Jaw set, and her eyes dark with hatred, she dropped her hand. "Fine."

They made their way down the slope in tense silence. Once they were at the inn and had managed to convince the proprietress that the dragon threat had passed, Iden excused Lydia to a table just behind them where she could keep an eye on Delphine, whose fist was clenched with such force around her mead bottle that Iden feared she might shatter it.

"I _was_ an Eye of the Queen. _Was_ ," Iden began, her voice low though they were the only folk awake at the inn. "You know as well as I do that during the war our purpose became far less involved with safeguarding the crown and more with, well, highly-classified and morally-questionable operations as a means to allow the Thalmor plausible deniability. The Eyes disbanded after the signing of the Concordat, against orders and under penalty of death. We had realized what we had become and sought to leave it behind us. I never looked back. I couldn't even tell you the name of whoever is ruling Alinor now."

"You can't just leave that behind," Delphine spat, almost trembling with fury. "Not with the role you and the rest of those butchers played. All those people you killed, the lives you destroyed, the irreparable damage done-"

"Yes, and I was very good at it," Iden acknowledged. "Just as you were proficient within your own role. You must have been, to have stayed alive this long. The bounty they had on your head was impressive."

Delphine narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare compare us. Your little mind games might work on everyone else but they won't work on me. I'm well aware of how you did what you did. Illusion spells, manipulation, turning soldier against soldier, brother against brother. It was nothing short of a war crime."

Iden laughed humorlessly in her face. "Of course. The arbitrary rules of warfare. Murder is only ethical if done by fire or by the sword, am I right? Do you realize how hypocritical you sound?"

Delphine vehemently shook her head. "You know it's a bit late in the game for you to become a pacifist."

Iden returned the sneer. "I'm not a pacifist. I'm a realist. And don't act like the Blades are innocent victims in all this. I remember the Falinesti incident. The wholesale destruction of countless sacred Aldmer sites and artifacts. The interrogation, inprisonment, and exile of any elf or Khajiit whose loyalty to the Empire could be called into question. Sabotage of civilian merchant ships that just happened to be carrying Thalmor cargo. _You're_ just as accountable. And you aren't the only one seated at this table that the Thalmor have a death order on."

Delphine glared at her with clear loathing but did not have an answer to her diatribe. For a long time they sat there looking hard at each other. Then Delphine seemed to make up her mind on something, because she closed her eyes and sighed, though her jaw was still set.

"I guess we could sit here all night rehashing histories that we aren't proud of, or we can focus on what's happening now. The fact is that you _are_ the Dragonborn, and I am sworn to serve you. I have an oath that I will not abandon, whether I like you or not. Against my better judgment, I believe you when you say you've left the Thalmor behind you. And if I'm being honest, you having some background knowledge of what they're capable of could end up being very useful, because I think they might have a hand in this."

Iden, quick to forgive and eager to move on to a subject that did not involve her past, smirked. "Aren't you sweet. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll eventually become the best of friends. I might even name my first-born after you."

"Gods have mercy on any child of yours. But shut up a moment. I might have a plan. Just need to iron out the details. Meet me back in Riverwood in three days. I'll have something figured out by then."

Delphine stood up from the table and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Iden stared at her, appalled. "You're leaving _now_? It's after midnight!"

"You think the dragons care what time it is?" she said self-righteously. Then she reached into her satchel and presented Iden with the horn. "Here. I think you'll be wanting this."

Iden regarded it as if it were a cursed thing, because she realized, in horror, that this meant yet another dismal climb to High Hrothgar. Delphine smirked at her expression, wished her a good hike and left the inn. Iden sneered after her and then, after the door had shut behind her, muttered something under her breath about working too hard. Then she woke up Lydia, who had fallen asleep at her own table, and asked her to procure some beds for the night, and in the morning to have the innkeeper prepare some breakfast for her before she woke up, and since they had a ways to travel it had better be well before sunrise, and with that final task completed Iden drifted peacefully off to sleep while Lydia carried out her orders, quietly cursing her all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eye of the Queen" is a joinable Dominion faction in Elder Scrolls Online. I have no idea what their status is at the time of Skyrim but I didn't just make it up. Just wanted you to know!


	7. The Ambassador and the Fraud

"Before we get too wild with our planning here, I need to know, and I need you to be entirely honest when you answer this, but what are the chances of any Thalmor agent in Skyrim recognizing you?"

"Near zero," Iden said truthfully, leaned up against the wall in Delphine's basement. The agreed-upon three days had passed and here she was once more, adrift in fate. "Mine, like yours, is a defunct order. All of the other Eyes are either dead, missing, or on the run, and all the Thalmor have on me is hearsay and rumor, since no one was supposed to know who we were, and, well, no offense to my people but the descriptions of Altmer more or less read the same: tall and blonde."

"That's good, because my plan involves you being front and center at a party at the Thalmor embassy. While I'm sure you can handle yourself in that crowd, I didn't want to send you someplace where you'd immediately be fingered."

Iden had a choice reply to Delphine's phrasing but she was swiftly silenced. "Don't you dare. Now here's what we're going to do. I'm going to get you an invitation to the party. Balgruuf won't be attending but since you're his Thane you can say he's sending you in his stead if anyone asks. I have a contact that works there. Wood elf. Plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. He can get a weapon in for you in case things get hairy. You'll find a way to cause a distraction, slip away from the party, and see what you can find on the dragon attacks. Simple."

But Iden shook her head. "You give the Thalmor too much credit if you think they have anything to do with the dragons coming back."

"Why not?" Delphine said defensively. "The Empire had captured Ulfric. They were about to execute him, the rebellion was all but over, then a dragon just happens to fly in at the perfect time so he can escape? Now with Ulfric back in Windhelm the war is back in full swing, with the Stormcloaks and the Imperials all but deadlocked. Who benefits from that except the Thalmor?"

"They're opportunistic predators, wolves hunting the weak and sick," Iden said. "I assure you, they're not complaining about the dragons, and they'll find every way possible to take advantage of them, but they aren't the direct cause."

Delphine shrugged stubbornly. "Even if they aren't, they may know something we don't."

Iden was not entirely convinced, but having nothing better to do she decided to go along. "This will be difficult," she mused. "Usually I'm the distraction at these sorts of functions. I'm not sure how to cause one that doesn't involve me."

Delphine sighed dismissively. "Do whatever you have to do."

This would turn out to be prophetic advice, because Iden took her words to heart. Two days later, her sword in Malborn's possession and herself draped in stolen finery that fit her surprisingly well, she arrived at the Thalmor embassy coifed and primped and perfectly prepared for sabotage. After the guard had checked her invitation she was ushered inside without any further hassle.

She was hardly through the door before a long, black and gold-robed figure rose up before her. Her gracious host, if Delphine's description served her accurately. Sharp-featured, quick-eyed, and formidable in the way a woman in her position was expected to be. Iden knew of Elenwen indirectly from her time with the Dominion and was well aware that the Ambassador's role as hostess was secondary to her real duties: interrogation and inference. If anyone could find her out, it would be this woman, which was why Delphine had insisted that Iden not draw attention to herself which, coincidentally, was why she immediately decided to do the exact opposite.

"Elenwen, isn't it? I've heard many good things," Iden said before the Ambassador could introduce herself, flashing her finest smile but not bowing, making it clear they were on equal footing. She knew the Thalmor, and her race in general, and she knew that deference only went so far and was quickly forgotten. She was far more likely to be remembered if she held her ground.

It seemed to work. The Ambassador, caught off-guard for only a moment, quickly recovered and politely returned the smile, forgoing her own bow. Her stare was piercing as she attempted to make a read on this unexpected guest. "Is that correct? But then it seems you have me at a disadvantage."

"Iden, Thane to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun" she offered, and though Elenwen's eyes twitched slightly at her name she showed no other signs of recognition.

"An uncommon but pretty name."

Iden blushed as if on command. "It's a family name. Our ancestral home is within the yew forests along the northern coast of the Isle."

Elenwen nodded. Her gaze remained careful but it seemed due more to intrigue than suspicion. "I, unfortunately, have other guests to greet, but I do wish to speak more of our homeland. It's been too long since I've been back in Alinor and I imagine it's been long for you too. And I can't help but wonder how a fellow mer found her place in this land of barbarians."

"Well then, Ambassador, I look forward to telling you all about it," Iden said, keeping her own smile warm and inviting, yet confidential, as if were meant for Elenwen alone. She was entirely in her element and she knew it.

Elenwen's lips curled. "Please, help yourself to some wine, or brandy, I'll find you soon," she promised, and excused herself.

Malborn was just inside, behind the bar, wearing an expression that indicated the possibility that at any moment he might run screaming from the premises. "I don't think I can do this," he whispered frantically upon seeing her.

Iden's answering smile was strained and she spoke to him under her breath, her teeth clenched. "Pull yourself together, you weasel," was her choice method of encouragement. "All you have to do is unlock a door."

Malborn shook his head. "If they catch me, I'm dead! I can't-"

"Brandy, thank you," she said in a normal tone of voice, snatching the chalice from his trembling hand and leaving him standing there looking miserable. She surveyed the room. There were a few men who were clearly merchants, slick-mouthed and oily. An elderly, seer-like woman who she recognized as the Jarl from Morthal was deep in conversation with the Ambassador, and another high elf, a justiciar in Thalmor black and gold, was holding court with a finely-dressed Nord who Iden did not recognize but based on her circlet and attire assumed to be another Jarl.

Then she caught sight of a handsome, raven-haired woman with intelligent eyes that narrowed in distrust the moment she met her gaze. Iden took a liking to her immediately.

"I don't know you, and I know everyone," she warned in a low, smooth timbre once Iden had sidled up to her. "So if you don't want to be outed in a very embarrassing fashion, I suggest you stay away from me."

Iden briefly considered taking the threat seriously and backing off but decided against it. After all, a certain bard in Ivarstead had given her a pretty good idea as to who this woman might be, and she simply could not pass up the chance to meet such a notorious figure. Especially not one so alluring.

"You aren't curious?" Iden asked, fully accepting the risk and bypassing denial. "Come now, my lady, I'm sure you've been to a dozen of these. They're always the same. But this one doesn't have to be."

Maven Black-Briar peered at her dubiously. Iden watched and waited. After a long moment she blinked and pursed her lips. "You're either very bold or very foolish. I don't want to know the specifics of what you're up to, but I won't out you, as long as whatever you're planning doesn't inconvenience me."

"Of course not, my lady, but I must ask, because I find myself in need of an accomplice for a fairly simple task. Once everyone has settled in a bit, would you be amenable towards causing a tiny little distraction? Nothing too serious or too scandalous, unless you want it to be."

Maven pretended to seriously contemplate the request, but knowing that she could quite possibly murder someone at this party and not have it threaten her position too greatly, and taking into consideration her own boredom, she finally gave a single nod of acknowledgement. "Very well. You'll get your distraction. What's your name, troublemaker?"

Iden gave her a respectful bow. "Iden, Lady Black-Briar."

"Well, Iden, if you ever find yourself in Riften, come find me. I'm sure I could use someone who is willing to take risks to shake things up a bit."

"Of course, my lady. I'll shake anything you ask me to."

Maven did not seem to be impressed by this little remark and walked away, though she hid the faintest of smirks behind her chalice. Iden looked around the room and by terrible accident managed to make eye contact with the sleaziest looking man she had ever seen, and to her horror she watched as he somehow took her pained grimace as an invitation and made his way over to her.

"Well well, haven't seen you around here before," he slurred, his face far too close to hers, his voice too loud, and his breath reeking of brandy and cheese. "My name is Erikur, Thane of Solitude and merchant extraordinaire. Are you with the Thalmor? Elenwen had mentioned that she was going to be inviting more of your representatives to one of the next parties. How are you enjoying Skyrim?"

She opened her mouth to excuse herself but something else caught his attention before she had the chance. "Hell-o! There's a lively looking filly," he said, leering at the serving-girl, a pretty Bosmer who looked about as miserable to be there as she possibly could have been. When she saw that Erikur had his gaze on her she visibly paled. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm going to get another drink and try and get a good word in for myself. I hope you don't take offense to me saying this, but I've heard elven women are insatiable."

Poor girl. Iden shrugged as he took his leave, considering that myth. In her own experience, it was about 75-25. But the sound of a throat being cleared caught her attention. Maven was peering at her, waiting for an indication to begin the distraction. Iden nodded and made her way back to the bar, where Malborn was frantically shaking his head. "No!" he whispered. "I can't, I can't! They'll kill me!"

Iden gave him a grim look. "They'll kill you? Oh no, you'll _wish_ it was them by the time I'm done with you," she warned. But it was too late. Maven was standing in the center of the room, loudly accusing some poor partygoer named Razelan of doing something he was absolutely not guilty of. The unlucky man, who was drunk, seemed to be entirely uncomprehending of the tragedy had befallen him and was attempting to defend himself against imaginary charges with little success. Iden looked pointedly at Malborn, but he was frozen solid, and no amount of threats or verbal abuse had spurred him into action by the time Maven's act had reached its conclusion, and there was no way she could have pushed past him without causing her own scene. So while Elenwen smoothed things over between her guests Iden was still at the bar, seriously taking Malborn to task.

"You little coward. I'll make you wish you'd never been born," she hissed. "I'll skin you alive after when this is over, do you understand me?"

Malborn was horribly pale and could only nod bleakly. Maven caught Iden's eye from across the room and shrugged as if to say "I did what I could."

Iden turned back to Malborn. "Go back into your pantry and get half a teaspoon of crushed canis root. Put it in the chalice closest to that pillar, with the red wine. Do you understand me, you dreadful beast? Can you at least manage that? Good. Now go."

Plan B was now in effect. When Malborn returned she watched him do as she instructed and without another glance she snatched the chalice up, being sure to grab another for herself, put on her most charming smile, and strode across the room towards the Ambassador.

"I noticed your hand was bereft of a drink," Iden said, offering her the chalice with a wink and a grin. Elenwen paused, caught in a minor conundrum. As a rule, she never imbibed at her own parties, but knowing it would be rude to refuse a guest, especially one she had unanswered questions about, she took the cup with a small, grateful nod, sipping at the liquid within. If it tasted at all unusual due to Iden's little addition, she did not indicate so. She raised her brows in pleasant surprise once she tasted it. "Thank you. How did you guess at my preferred bottle?"

"Oh, I had a feeling," Iden said breezily, gulping down her own drink. "And besides, what self-respecting Altmer does not favor a Surilie pinot noir?"

She was talking out of her ass but it seemed to be working, because Elenwen simply nodded and smiled obligingly. "This is a very good year for it too. It's so refreshing to speak to someone who appreciates the finer things. These Nords," she said, dropping her voice conspiratorially, "just guzzle mead and ale like it's water. If I were to tell them this is a 338 vintage, they would not have the faintest idea what that means. They think Alto wine is the height of luxury. I can hardly stand it."

Iden nodded sympathetically, taking advantage of their conversation to edge a little closer. "Just a few days ago one tried to tell me that a plain chicken egg tastes as good as a properly poached guar egg. Yet to hear them talk about the versatility of mammoth cheese you'd think they were the Gourmet."

"It's blasphemy," Elenwen murmured. She took another drink and slid her gaze towards Iden's face. "Where are you from? I can't quite pinpoint your accent."

Iden knew that was a lie. There was no way that an inquisitor of Elenwen's caliber had not already figured that much out. She also knew that telling her the truth, or at least a half-truth, might throw her off a little. "The family estate was about ten miles outside Lillandril, though I didn't spend as much time at the harbor as you might think. You were born in the capital, weren't you? The city of glass. I only went once myself."

Another half-truth. Iden had spent years in the city of Alinor. It was, after all, the seat of her Queen. Elenwen's eyes widened just slightly. "And just how did you divine that?"

Iden gently laughed as if it were nothing. "Oh, personal experience. I can sort of hear it in your own accent, but many of the most striking women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting were natives of your city. In your case it wasn't much of a risk to guess otherwise."

Flattery was one guaranteed way to get into an Altmer's good graces. Iden knew this because it worked on herself. It worked especially well if it was even slightly sincere. Iden doubted Elenwen had received many honest compliments in her lifetime, at least ones that did not have to do with how well she served the Dominion. This worked well for Iden, because while she knew the Ambassador was certainly a truly reprehensible woman with a villainous skill-set, she had always had a bit of a thing for mean-looking blondes.

Elenwen was surprised by the compliment, an expression that quickly turned to interest. "You're correct. I was born there. You read people very well."

This observation was meant to be received as complimentary, but Iden knew it was, more likely, an accusation. Perhaps it was both. Either way, it exactly what Iden wanted. Elenwen was intrigued by her. She had questions she wanted answers to. She had intent. She was certainly aware that Iden was not telling her the entire truth and as someone whose job it was to find it out, it probably drove her mad. Iden had little doubt that she would be able to get her alone. The problem was the issue of time. She had maybe an hour in Elenwen's company before the canis root took effect. Once it did, it would be a matter of slipping out, preferably in Elenwen's robes, rifling through her office a bit, and then making her grand escape. Of course, she could do all of that without actually bedding the Ambassador, but then what was the point?

She looked around. The din had increased ten-fold since Maven's little scene had livened the place up. Nearly everyone was properly boozed. Iden smoothly turned her back to the center of the room, privatizing their conversation, and then she made her move.

"Would you care to find out just how well?"

Elenwen swallowed the sip of wine she had just taken and stood there a long moment. She then peered over Iden's shoulder, her expression flat, making nearly the same calculations Iden had just made herself. It would be poor form for her to abandon her own party, but on the other hand, it would also be a very elegant way to disrespect her other guests and make it clear that they were here on her whim and not the other way around.

That and, well, it had been a long time.

Elenwen returned her gaze to Iden's face. She had tilted her head slightly while she had been waiting for her answer. Her fearures were meticulously arranged to be both suggestive and yet perfectly innocent. She was good. Too good, Elenwen thought, but not so good to escape further investigation. She held out her hand.

"Shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Malborn, but unfortunately he had to be sacrificed for the greater good. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.


	8. Mjoll the Lioness and a crisis of conscience

"And what exactly is this so-called visitor's tax for?" Iden asked for about the third time, her expression as innocent as she could manage, though her amusement at the attempt being made to swindle her by the actual city guard was quickly turning to irritation. This was not an encouraging prelude to her time in Riften, but she outright refused to hand over even a meager amount of coin to this ruffian, so there she was, standing outside the gates with Lydia at her side, mere feet away from her destination, debating over what amounted to barely a handful of septims.

"Like I already told you, it's for the privilege of entering the city," the guard repeated, his own tone becoming strained. This back and forth had been going on much longer than he had ever anticipated it to, because this traveler, unlike the others, had not just grumbled and handed over the coin. She had instead insisted on inconveniencing him and his side-gig of scamming unknowing visitors by being as difficult as possible and he was, unfortunately, running out of script.

"See, that's the bit I don't understand," she replied placidly. "Based on what I've seen of your illustrious city so far, it seems that you should be paying me for even bothering to show up."

The guard was moments away from either threatening to arrest her or, now that he thought about it, giving this one up and just letting her inside, because the first option was sure to cause an unfathomable ruckus.

"Stealing from hapless travelers again? You should be ashamed of yourself guardsman, if you can even call yourself that."

They turned towards the voice. A fierce woman who carried herself with all the poise and confidence of a lion among sheep was standing on the road behind them, her hands and wrists streaked in blood as if she had just been hunting. Between that, the wild mane of golden hair, and the armor of hide and iron and fur she had plated herself in, she looked like a deity described by warrior-poets in the Sovngarde myths. Iden met a warm, determined gaze with her own and felt heat bloom on her cheeks. She would climb her like a tree if she could.

"This doesn't concern you, Mjoll," the guard said, though at her appearance he seemed to have resigned himself to failure because he glanced back at Iden with obvious malice. "Just get on inside," he spat contemptuously, muttering about how did not get paid enough to deal with people like her.

"I'm sure you had that handled, you look like a woman who can take care of herself," Mjoll said to her after the gate had been slammed rudely behind them. "But I couldn't just stand by and watch. The corruption in this city is getting more and more out of hand every day, and it upsets me to no end to see our own guardsman take advantage of it."

A heroine. And the way she rolled her R's. Iden was so smitten that it was nearly enough to distract her from the smell of refuse that had gathered in the canal below, the reek of dead fish unflushed from stagnant waters and the perfume of rotten waste. Such was the force of the onslaught that Iden's eyes began to water and it was all she could do it shrug it off.

"Not at all," she demurred. "I'm sure I would still be out there had you not come along and saved me."

Mjoll gifted her with a radiant smile. "Well then, it was my pleasure. If I may ask, what brings you to Riften?"

"Things to see, people to do," Iden replied. Behind her, Lydia battled the urge to sigh but Mjoll either failed to catch what Iden actually said or was generous enough to assume it was an honest mistake, because she simply nodded. "Keep your wits about you here. This city is full of thieves, and not just the sort who will snatch your coinpurse off your hip."

"Don't worry, no one puts their hands on me unless I want them to," Iden reassured her, and this time Lydia did in fact sigh and she did so rather loudly.

Mjoll smiled once more and took her leave. Iden watched her go and turned to Lydia with a fatuous expression on her face, pleased with herself. "That was a breath of fresh air in this cesspool of a city. I can't get out of here quickly enough."

"Indeed, ma'am."

"This city smells like the inside of an Orc's armor after a long hike in the middle of summer," Iden sighed. "I would know, because-"

She hardly had the chance to begin her recital before she was halted by a brutish looking myrmidon, who after brief introductions informed them his name was Maul and that he would not abide troublemakers. It was clear after a few moments of this wholesome discussion that he was a Black-Briar toady, and Iden realized his specific knowledge might be useful to her.

"I'm looking for Brynjolf," she said after it had finally been established that she was not there to threaten his mistress's position in the city.

He jerked his chin over his shoulder. "I'm sure he's in the market trying to peddle that snake-oil of his, or whatever new scam he's trying to push."

Iden raised her brows. "You're awfully forthcoming about his activities considering that, based on what I've heard, the Guild is a more or less a Black-Briar vassal."

But Maul shook his head. "My loyalties are with Maven, and only Maven. As for the Guild, they aren't exactly on good terms with her right now. Long stretch of bad luck. If you want in on that action, it's your neck. I'm just here to make sure whatever you do doesn't mess with her."

"That's really quite touching," Iden intoned sweetly.

Maul simply glared.

Brynjolf was, as Maul promised, in the market. Though he wore the finery of nobles the hems at his wrists and collar were dusty and stained, and there were visible tears in the fabric that he had clearly attempted to sew himself. That and he smelled like a sewer, but Iden was too polite to do more than pinch up her nose as she approached him. Priding himself on his ability to spot potential in even the most unlikely of thieves, he ignored the insult and regarded her as if he had just hit the jackpot. "Never done an honest day's work for all that coin you're carrying, eh, lass?"

"And just what could you mean by that?" she asked, and he grinned like a shark.

"Come now, I don't see a whole lot of High Elves in my business but you look like you know how to handle a mark. Every so-called old master puts too much stock in staying out of sight, relying on the shadows and on luck, and they forget that if the mark is watching your mouth, they aren't watching your hands. Looking at you, I'd bet you could talk the panties off a priestess."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Iden replied proudly, already taking to him. "But I'm afraid that's for another day. I'm looking for someone, and I heard you're the man to talk to about where I might be able to find him."

"I'm sure I know where your someone is, and I also have a proposal that might interest you. And before you try and talk and your way out of it, this is a simple business transaction. It's how this city works. You get something you want, and I get to see if I'm right about you."

Iden shook her head. "There are many illicit activities I'm experienced with, but picking pockets isn't one of them. I'm not sure it's a skill I have any natural talent for."

But Brynjolf's eyes were sparking. "How will you know if you don't try?"

Damn this man. He had her read. She sighed in resignation, knowing full well that she was incapable of passing up a challenge like that. "Fine, what is it you want me to do?"

"For this act, I'll cause the distraction. A smooth talker still isn't anything without quick hands and good timing. Your job is simple: steal a ring from that stand over there, the lizard's, and slip it in that elf's pocket. Simple."

She looked around. The Argonian, a jeweler, was talking up a potential client, and the Dunmer was bent over his ledger. She eyed their stands and the low stone wall that circled the bazaar. It would provide some amount of cover from the guards strolling the walkways above the canal. Not that she knew a thing about thieving, but it seemed a simple of enough task for the sole reason that she had very helpful spellwork on her side. Whether or not Brynjolf was aware of this possibility remained to be seen.

"Alright," she said, sounding perhaps a tad more confident than she felt. "Start your distraction then. And be ready to talk after."

Lydia's role in this scheme was simple: she was to stand on the bridge towards the keep and call out the agreed upon signal noise if any guards crossed and went around the market, because that meant they were more likely to catch a glimpse of her should the sunlight hit her right. With this settled, Brynjolf began his distraction, a pitch for Falmer-blood elixir, if that truly was what was in the vials he had lining his stand, and Iden prepared herself.

Her plan, as it turned out, required decent timing. The moment that the vendors had cleared their stands she strode around the back wall, shielded from the crowd by Lydia on her left. With a flick of her hand, the illusion was cast, and she went invisible. Her flexibility here would be limited, because the spell would fail if she did anything too strenuous. She managed to unlock the sliding door under the Argonian's stand just fine, but the lockbox within gave her some grief and she lost focus on the spell just as she got it unlocked.

She stood up, walking back around the market with the ring clutched in her palm. A cursory glance showed that no one had noticed her. The crowd was still watching Brynjolf's spiel, but she could tell by their grumbling that they were beginning to lose interest. The elf was seated on a crate by his stand, right in a spot where she could slip between it and the stone wall and not be seen on either side, but she had to move quickly. Then she noticed Mjoll, frowning and standing off by the inn, speaking to a man who nodded vigorously at everything she said. Both of them were regarding Brynjolf with matching unfriendly gazes. Then Mjoll met Iden's eyes as she was still edging around the back of the market, smiled, and began to walk towards her. Iden froze.

"b-buh-GAWK!" Lydia suddenly cried, trumpeting forth her best approximation of a chicken in fine fashion. Mjoll instinctively turned towards the noise, and this was just enough of an opportunity for Iden to flick her wrist and cast the spell once more, disappearing back behind the wall as Mjoll stood on the canal and turned in a circle looking for her, utterly befuddled. While she was searching in vain, Iden crouched behind the unfortunate Dunmer and dropped the ring into his pants pocket, slid back out behind the crowd, and, while weaving between the well and the wall, let the spell fade as she made her way back to Mjoll.

"Hello again," she said, a little more out of breath than she might have wished.

Mjoll started at the noise and spun around to face her, confusion evident on her face. "This will sound so strange, but I swear I saw you just moments ago, and then you just disappeared."

"Well, I'm back again," Iden said, smiling nervously. "I thought I saw an old friend of mine, across the water, but it wasn't them at all. I'm not sure why I thought so, because they've been dead for years."

Mjoll regarded her sympathetically, kindly dismissing the extreme awkwardness of this tale. "Well, I'm very sorry to hear that. But how are you liking the city? It's a shame that it's run by such blackguards, because in the summer, when the aspens turn, it really can be beautiful. But our officials have let it fall into disrepair. Waste in the canals, rotting wood, broken stone. They raise taxes and then pocket the difference instead of fixing anything. It's appalling."

"I couldn't agree more on all counts," Iden said, glancing over her shoulder as the crowd around Brynjolf began to disperse. Seeing that her task had reached its conclusion, she relaxed and smiled meaningly at Mjoll. "But, blatant corruption aside, you're right in saying that the view is quite lovely."

Any reply Mjoll might have made in response to the compliment was lost as a small uproar started up in the market. Two guards, tipped off by an "anonymous source," were standing at the unlucky Dunmer's stand, their hands on the hilts of their swords and the dark elf looking properly insulted.

"Come on then, Brand-Shei, empty your pockets and let's have a look," one guard was saying to him, his tone bored and humorless.

But Brand-Shei stubbornly refused. "This is discrimination. Just because I'm an elf-"

"And Madesi is an Argonian. Funny coincidence. We all know your folk don't get along too well. Now come on then, we don't want to have to force you."

Brand-Shei's expression of total shock and despair upon finding the ring in his pocket was that of a mer absolutely forsaken by his gods. He looked at the little thing in his palm as if it were a cursed artifact that fate had used to betray him by allowing it to show up where it never was supposed to be. "I've been framed!" he cried out, but the guards were looking at each other knowingly, and Brand-Shei's fate was sealed.

They led him away, shouting out and crying. As he passed the Argonian's stand he fell to his knees and implored Madesi to believe him, that he would never think to steal from him or anyone, but Madesi simply stood there in silence and would not meet his eyes and Brand-Shei soon disappeared.

"I can't believe this. He wasn't lying," Mjoll said bitterly, after everyone had settled down and the futile protests of the doomed Brand-Shei had died away. Iden turned to her in alarm. "What do you mean?"

Mjoll's brow was furrowed. "He said he was framed. I'm sure he telling the truth. He wouldn't steal from Madesi, they were friends. It took them years to get past the animosity shared between their people but they had managed it. But that's over now. Brand-Shei won't forgive Madesi for not standing up for him, once he's free. They'll go back to being enemies for no reason at all. All because some dirty thief wanted Brand-Shei out of business."

Mjoll was shaking her head, her expression crestfallen, righteous anger clear in her eyes. "Whoever did that is a low-down rotten skunk, and I hope that someday they come to realize it. But I'm sure they won't. Most villains die villains."

Mjoll's voice was filled with such dismal hopelessness and Iden experienced a heaviness in her chest that she had not felt in years. She almost felt nauseous. It was shame, or guilt, or some other awful emotion that she typically never bothered with. But now it overwhelmed her and she swallowed tightly as she felt the blood drain from her face. In one of those incredibly rare instances, Iden was at a loss for words.

Mjoll sighed dejectedly and gave Iden a small smile. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound so pessimistic. It's little things, small acts of kindness and good intentions that will turn this city around. It just takes time. I can tell you know what I mean, you look just as upset as I am."

With that, Mjoll excused herself. The man who had been standing by her before gave Iden a disapproving glance which quickly turned into a dumb little smile as he followed Mjoll back into the inn.

Brynjolf was quick to make good on his end of the bargain and was tickled by the idea of her being a mage, citing that most of the idiots he worked with could hardly even light a candle, much less turn invisible. He insisted that Iden come and find him when she was ready to make serious coin with the Guild and directed her to the Ratway, which she was sure was as charming a place as it sounded.

"The Ratway. The Warrens. All dismal names. Par for the course, really," Iden said to Lydia as they left the market, her sigh as she said so even more pronounced than normal. "Good timing with that chicken call though. You saved the whole operation."

"That was pure luck, ma'am. I'd forgotten under which circumstances I was supposed to make the call and, figuring that it wouldn't hurt anything, went ahead and let a few out. I'm glad that they served you properly."

"It never fails to impress me how well dumb luck works for you, Lydia."

"Thank you, my Thane," Lydia said, disregarding the insult, because she noticed that her Thane's heart was not in it, and she would be right, because even though Iden had gotten exactly what she wanted, and made a potentially valuable ally in the bargain, her mind was on what Mjoll had said.

_Most villains die villains._

Is that what she was? A villain? She had always firmly aligned herself with chaotic neutrality. Perhaps she was far from being a saint but she almost always, at the very least, toed the moral and ethical line whenever possible. Today was the first time since the war that she had done anything blatantly unlawful, at least in her opinion, and it was ultimately a petty little crime. That cheap little ring would only cost Brand-Shei a week or two in jail, and he would probably even make up with the Argonian when all was said and done.

Not only that, but Iden was a firm proponent of utilitarianism. Maybe her little stunt hurt a couple of people, but if she did not find Esbern, then everyone would die anyway. She certainly believed that in this case the ends justified the means. Why, then, did Iden feel so low about herself? Why did her justifications fall short? Why could she only think of Mjoll's disappointed gaze? Plenty of people had tried to shame her before for far worse, and she had dismissed them without a second thought. So why did it matter if this stranger, glorious as she was, was the one to do it this time?

But these were troubling considerations for another day, she concluded, and with a small shake of her head to clear her thoughts she buried her worries deep down in a place where all the others went and took a breath, one she immediately regretted as the scent of the sewers below assaulted her, and set forth, her mind focused on the upsettingly sticky path ahead.


	9. The Markarth Debacle

"Is that a _stone_ bed? These Nords, they absolutely never cease to amaze me. Just when I think they couldn't live in more masochistic conditions, they reveal this. It's not as though they couldn't get a proper straw mattress. They chose stone because they _like_ it."

Iden was incredibly distraught. When she had left Sky Haven Temple and opted to make the short hike to Markarth she had done so because the thought of sleeping on an ancient, dusty cot in that spider-infested ruin alongside Delphine and Esbern appealed to her about as much as lying on a bed of nails. Markarth itself, on the surface, was a gorgeously rendered city of pale stone and the remnants of Dwemer brass, but she had about ten seconds to take in the scene before she found herself in the middle of a sloppily-executed assassination attempt. She had foiled it, of course, and graciously accepted the thanks of the would-be target. She also, with little subtlety, had been handed a note by some conspiracy theorist who was endeavoring in vain to involve her in matters which did not concern her in the slightest. He had left her alone only after she had promised to meet him at some shrine to hear him out, though once his back was turned she methodically tore his note to shreds and let the wind carry it away.

Upon entering the Silver-blood Inn she was greeted by an amusing scene courtesy of the proprietors, who had obviously been married far too long, bickering back and forth in an exchange that had likely begun well before she had even arrived in Skyrim and would surely continue long after she had left this city behind. All in all she had been having a thoroughly good time, up until the wife showed her and Lydia to their rooms. For a long time Iden just stood there staring mutely at her accommodations as she attempted to come to terms with them but the scandal of the stone bed was so much that she finally shook her head in anguish and fetched Lydia once more.

"This won't do. Go and tell the proprietor that we only want one room after all and get my coin back for the other. You can keep this one and do what you can to make yourself comfortable in it. But I'm not sleeping on that thing."

"Very good, my Thane."

Iden fastened her sword back to her hip. Better safe than sorry in a city where assassinations were carried out by fools with kitchen knives in broad daylight. "It's still early, isn't it? I'm going to find someone who doesn't insist on resting upon a slab of rock like a goat waiting to be sacrificed and spend the night with them. I'll see you in the morning."

And with that, she set off on her quest. Her first stop, once she had cleared the smelter and the dreaded mine, was the alchemist's shop. The owner was clearly Forsworn in origin and had little patience for Iden, who, instead of browsing her premium concoctions and spending money, spent the bulk of her time flustering her young and pretty assistant, Muiri. The conversation was an interesting one but Muiri raised more red flags than an Imperial parade. Despite her diminutive size and sweet face, Iden got the impression that this was the sort of woman who never let anything go and likely sent hitmen after lovers who had jilted her, and while the entire prospect was an intriguing one she was forced to make a mental note of her name for future reference to return to when she had more available time to commit. So she excused herself with a chivalrous bow and a promise to visit again and set back out, the owner shaking her fist at her as she left empty-handed.

Her next attempt was made at the forge by the waterfalls, but the blacksmith, a hard-faced orc with soot all over her powerful hands, was soundly distracted by her assistant, who seemed to have disappointed her yet again, had no time for Iden and so she was dismissed after a few subtle and then not-so-subtle attempts had been made to make her purpose clear.

She very briefly entered the Jarl's keep, mostly out of curiosity, but upon spotting the black and gold of her former affiliation pacing the tops of the steps with two guards in tow she promptly turned on her heel and exited. That was a ruckus for another time. Fairly discouraged, it was then with soaring joy that she perceived, high above the rest of the city, the nude golden body of Dibella and all that the presence of such a temple promised to an individual like her.

The temple itself was warm, bathed in the golden haze of countless candles, the heady smell of incense and perfume thick and welcoming. At the entrance she was greeted by a tan-robed priestess, who regarded Iden with open appreciation and little subtlety.

"Welcome, traveller," she breathed, approaching her, all rolling hips and curved lips. "I'm afraid the Inner Sanctum is closed, the sisters are deep in Communion. You may still receive Dibella's blessing, but looking at you, I'd say the goddess already favors you."

Iden's lips curled, though she could not fully hide her disappointment at the news. "Oh, closed, you say? That is such a shame, I was truly looking forward to submitting myself to Her worship."

"May I?" the priestess asked suddenly. Iden nodded, having no idea what she was agreeing to. The priestess stepped closer and gently trailed her fingers along the edge of her jaw, studying her. Iden felt her skin prickle beneath her touch, and a very slight shudder ran down her spine. The priestess carefully dragged her thumb across her bottom lip, which parted slightly, as she looked deep into her eyes.

"Oh, you truly are lovely," the priestess murmured. "And I'm sure there is so much we could teach you. If it were up to me, I would gladly make an exception for you, but alas, it is not within my authority to do so. Come back to us, once we've completed our Communion, and we'll show you things you've only dreamed of."

Before taking her leave, Iden was sure to kneel before the shrine and receive her blessing, for she knew that if there was any divine who loved and accepted her for how she lived her life, it was Lady Dibella.

Realizing she was running out of options, she, as a last-ditch effort, tried the general store, Arnleif and Sons, in the hopes that she could at least procure a bedroll for the evening.

"Yes, I know it says 'Arnleif' on the sign. No, I'm not Arnleif. Now, how can I assist you?" asked the owner, an attractive, middle-aged woman who, based on her demeanor, seemed unlikely to put up with any sort of nonsense. With that in mind, Iden more or less cut straight to the point.

"Hello there. I'm new to Markarth," Iden said, leaned up against the counter. "And I know you're about to close, but I bet a woman in your position knows a thing or two about this city, and I'd love to talk it over at dinner, if you might be amenable."

The woman's eyes widened in surprise but her expression of shock quickly softened into an amused smile. "You're fearless, I'll give you that. The only other person who ever tried to court me without even knowing my name was my husband."

Iden sighed. Normally such a minor inconvenience as a husband would have done little to deter her but for whatever reason she did not feel up to home-wrecking this evening. "Ah, I see."

But the woman's gaze was kind. "He passed away five years ago. Forsworn attack. Let me just say, I appreciate your forwardness, and maybe some other time I'd even take you up on your offer, but believe it or not I still miss that stubborn oaf, and the thought of seeing someone else, even just for dinner..."

"Say no more. Love like that does not fade with time. But I appreciate your kindness," Iden said, and she meant it.

"I'm Lizbeth, by the way. You ever need anything, I hope you come here for it. Our stock is a far cry better than anything they're peddling in that little market outside."

Iden left and stood outside, utterly defeated but less upset about it than she normally would have been. She did not even care about forgetting the bedroll. This concerned her slightly, but it was easy enough to dismiss it as preoccupation. After all, being the Dragonborn was serious business, and she had yet another trip to make to High Hrothgar beginning early tomorrow morning.

With that she resigned herself to the stone and entered the inn. She drank a couple of pints, courtesy of the woman she had saved earlier, won a fist-fight, accidentally flirted with the wife of a silversmith, who was sitting right beside her, and spent the rest of the night buying the both of them drinks, first to smooth out feelings and then just because it amused her to do so. At one in the morning she barged into Lydia's room and woke her up by shaking her shoulder. Lydia had followed her Thane's orders and did what she could to make herself comfortable, and she had done so by trying every single door in the establishment and taking the blankets and pillows out of any room she could get into, so that by the time Iden returned to her there was a mass of blankets layering the bed, much to the chagrin of the other residents who had come back to find their own beds naked and cold.

"Move over a bit," Iden said, bullying her way in beside her. "Alright, now turn around. This bed is too small to sleep ass-to-ass and I am _always_ the little spoon."

She fell asleep immediately and was snoring lightly within minutes, with Lydia pressed against her back, her own snores soon filling the room, while every other unhappy guest within the Silver-blood Inn rolled about in extreme discomfort on their bare stone slabs.


	10. Legate Rikke, a deception, and a painful revisitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rikke is admittedly a bit OOC in this chapter but I think many of us tend to forget ourselves when we're drunk and sad.

The first thing that Iden was fortunate enough to witness during her solo voyage to the capital city of Solitude was a beheading in the name of their recently butchered king. These executions were common following such a tragedy, because it was only fair that King Torygg, who had been unceremoniously shouted to bits by the usurper Ulfric, should be followed into the afterlife by those that the powers that be had deemed to be at fault. Several such exhibitions had taken place already that week, as if it were a carnival with daily acts. In this specific instance, the star was a poor guardsman who believed in his heart that he was doing the right thing by his heritage in allowing Ulfric Stormcloak through the gates unimpeded following the murder, and he said as much as he was granted his last words.

"Ulfric challenged our King to a fair trial by combat," the unfortunate victim said from the scaffold, his hands bound before him, his face bruised and beaten. "These are old laws, laws older than Imperial rule. Such is our way. Such is the way of Skyrim, and all Nords!"

The guardsman, a true son of Skyrim, did not have the support of public opinion on his side, and looking around Iden could see why. The proportion of Nords to any other race was much lower here than it had been in any other city she had come across. At least half of the human-folk were of Imperial blood and a handful of Redguards and Bretons stood among them. She even spotted another Altmer, the first she had seen in Skyrim that did not appear to be Thalmor-affiliated. They were not swayed by his dedication to the old ways and so this cosmopolitan conglomerate booed his words openly, and several cheered when he was shoved to his knees before the block. But there was a collective silence as the axe was raised, and Iden could not help but slightly drop her head at the crisp sound of the blade meeting wood. The guardsman's body slumped forward and then fell sideways, and his head dropped cleanly into the basket as if they might be taking it to a picnic.

Iden was reminded of how close she had been to having her own head cleanly separated from her shoulders and did not wish to linger long at this grim scene, nor did she particularly want to spend much time in the city itself. Solitude, like many old Imperial cities, had been heavily modeled after Altmeri architecture. It could be seen in the blue-grey stone that was used for the walls and for the palace, in the design of the windows and the layout itself. She was reminded strongly of Skywatch, and long councils of war at the Canonreeve's manor with people who now wanted her dead, and thus the resulting sentiment was not nostalgia, but dread. So she approached the Castle Dour in relative haste, leaving the murmuring crowd and those brave few who had edged forward to better inspect the guardsman's headless corpse well behind her.

In the courtyard the Legion was hard at work training up a fresh batch of recruits for the shambles. When they were dead, martyrs for the cause, there would be yet another rotation, and then another after that, fresh-faced men and women ready to fall gloriously upon rebel swords in the name of their Emperor. When Iden asked for General Tullius after observing this for a time, rudely jolted back to her own exhaustive days as a recruit, she was directed towards a doorway just at the entry to the fortress itself.

General Tullius, like many career military-men, was plagued by a singular devotion to his Empire so intense that he seemed truly incapable of thinking of anything else. Though he was a well-renowned strategist, every sentence he spoke sounded like it could have been pro-Legion propaganda printed for mass distribution. Viewing everything in terms of black and white and having a very narrow focus of which was directed entirely by the idea of Imperial victory, it became evident to Iden very early on in their discussion that this was going to be an incredibly difficult sell, and that her being Dragonborn, regardless of the myth associated, meant absolutely nothing to him.

"I wasn't sent to Skyrim to fight dragons. I was sent to quell this rebellion," he recited, as if he were reading off a missive directly from Cyrodiil itself. "And the only way I'll agree to a cease-fire is if Ulfric drags his traitorous hide out of Windhelm and to my door. There is no middle ground."

Iden sighed. She had known several Dominion generals just like this, and they were all just as unbearable. Reasoning with them was typically an exercise in futility, but only if she restricted herself and played by the rules.

"Ulfric has already agreed to a truce," she said, which was a complete and total fabrication. In reality, she had yet to even step into Windhelm. "He understands the threats that the dragons pose. He also understands that there will be no Skyrim to squabble over if they remain unchecked. I know for a fact you've already had several of your garrisons reduced to rubble by the beasts."

All lies. She did not know any of that. But she felt fairly certain that if this man was short-sighted enough to so casually disregard actual dragons then he probably would not notice a fib or two. She did not mention that she had been present for one such instance, however. It seemed like old news.

Tullius narrowed his eyes at her and his expression became one that she knew well, and she realized what manner of thought was going through that thick head of his.

"I'm not with the Thalmor," she said, exasperated. "This isn't a trap or a ruse. No one is going to swoop in and lay waste to your strongholds while you're stuck on the top of a mountain. I personally believe that this entire council business is as foolish as you do, but my job is to kill dragons. I can't do what I need to do without Jarl Balgruuf's cooperation. And he won't offer me that unless he's sure that Whiterun will be neutral ground while we've got a dragon roped up there. It's all Nordic nonsense and you and I both are being forced to wade through the ritualistic, symbolic mess that is their way."

Tullius sighed. He was just as fed up with the so-called "ritualistic mess" and had thus far failed to comprehend it any better than he had when he first arrived upon the scene. "That's an understatement if I ever heard one."

He turned to one of his Legates, a fellow Imperial and foreigner to the ways of this country, who seemed just as nonplussed by Iden's request. "Speaking of Nord nonsense, where's Rikke?" Tullius asked. "She'd be able to parse through this better than I could."

"She took a day off-duty, General."

Tullius sighed again and shrugged, looking back at Iden. "Fine. You'll get your peace council, for all the good it will do. When is it?"

"Three weeks from the date. Have a fine day, General."

He dismissed her with an annoyed grunt. With that farewell Iden had fully intended to leave Solitude and swiftly make her way to Windhelm. That is not what happened. Instead, her curiosity got the better of her and she got turned around while exploring the Dour, ending up within the officer's quarters. Most of them were on duty and each of the doors she tried in her attempt to locate an exit were locked. She was fiddling around with another one when a door at the end of the hallway opened and out stepped a woman drawn outside by the noise. Clearly military, her visage scarred and solemn, but judging by the bottle in her grasp and her casual clothing, Legate Rikke was taking full advantage of her day off, and she regarded Iden with only a modicum of surprise.

"Ah. Are you Lorana?" she asked.

Iden looked her up and down. Another Nord. Another blonde. She had been strangely consistent in her preferences as of late. "For you? I certainly can be."

Rikke failed to perceive that she was joking and gave her a flat little smile at the compliment, though Iden was not sure she had caught that either. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you til later. Come on in."

Once Iden was in her quarters she perceived that Rikke was much deeper in her cups than her initial demeanor might have let on and, judging by how distracted she seemed, she was well into the melancholic and dismal introspection phase of her inebriation.

"Here, help yourself," she said, gesturing at a platter of cheese and bread and moving to open another bottle of wine while Iden stood there, completely flummoxed.

"How was the trip?" Rikke asked. Iden shrugged helplessly. "Snowy."

"Won't lie, you aren't what I was expecting," she heard Rikke say from her small kitchen. "Not that I'm complaining. You're... well, you're lovely."

Rikke came off a little awkward but earnest, one could almost say shyly, and Iden suddenly comprehended the situation she had stumbled into.

In the final days of the Great War, when Legion morale was at its lowest, the Thalmor became notorious for gifting "entertainment" to high-ranking Imperial officers in the hopes that they could be convinced to share intel or even change sides. After the Concordat was signed, this practice continued, though the current purpose was to keep the upper-echelon satisfied with their new partnership. If these lonely officers happened to let slip something that the Thalmor might find useful, then so be it.

With the dilemma now painfully clear, Iden considered her options. She knew what she should do was explain to Legate Rikke that there had been a mistake and simply excuse herself. But then she regarded the tantalizing spread that she had laid out for her, clearly in an attempt to make whoever Lorana was feel at ease in her quarters. Though this was a somewhat pointless gesture considering that most Thalmor courtesans were specialized justiciars simply carrying out orders, it was also touchingly sweet that the effort had been made, and Rikke looked as though she could use someone to talk to. Iden knew that it had better be her and not the real Lorana, who would just turn around and share what she learned with the Ambassador the moment she had the chance. This also meant that Rikke's attempts at hospitality would not go to waste. What better way to build up a bit of positive karma, especially after that little Riften incident.

"Well, that's very kind of you to say," Iden replied, taking the offered wine with only slightly feigned enthusiasm. It was an Imperial blend, about as good a bottle that an officer could afford with their fairly meager pay.

"What's with the armor, and the sword?" Rikke asked, eyeing her.

Iden quickly took a long drink. "Oh, well, I had to come from the Embassy without an escort and they thought I'd be better be armed. Bandits and rebels about, all that."

Rikke nodded absently as if the answer did not matter all that much and took a very long drink herself. "I see."

Not a terribly convincing lie but poor Rikke did not prod. They fell into an awkward silence once more. "Would you mind if I, ah, unburdened myself?" Iden asked, attempting to move things along.

Rikke looked embarrassed. "Of course, I'm sorry, I should've-"

Iden dismissed her concern with a gentle shake of her head and removed her armor so that she was down to her robes and tights and took a seat on the edge of the couch. "Please, don't worry your pretty head about it, Legate."

Rikke resumed her stoic vigil. Iden endeavored to assuage her own budding guilt for her deception by quickly downing two cups of wine and starting on a third as Rikke slowly paced around the room. This silence stretched on for a long time. Iden looked around her quarters. Spartan and functional, no keepsakes or memorabilia. A neglected mountain flower wilting by the shuttered window was the only hint of color save the scarlet banners that lined every free wall in the compound and were not part of Rikke's decoration scheme. Her armor, displayed in the corner, was immaculately, almost obsessively, polished, as was the sword on the rack just beside it. Iden had been inside many residences, and this was as lonely an abode as she had ever seen.

"I... haven't done this before," Rikke admitted apologetically, breaking the tension with signature Nordic honesty. Iden immediately softened. She was not sure if Rikke meant that it was her first time with a courtesan or her first with a woman. Perhaps both.

"It's quite alright, Legate. Let's just talk a while."

Rikke sat down on the opposite end from her with a heavy sigh. "Please, just call me Rikke."

Iden smiled obligingly. "Very well."

Rikke sat there for a time. Iden wondered that she must be in dire straits if she was accepting company courtesy of the Thalmor, for she seemed to be having second thoughts about the whole matter. Then she made up her mind about it, loneliness trumping doubt with the assistance of about two bottles of wine, because she met Iden's eyes with a degree of acceptance. "How long have you been in Skyrim?"

"Oh, I'd say I arrived about a month ago."

"Fresh off the boat. How do you like it here?"

Iden smiled. "Between you and me, I despise it. I'm a fair-weather creature. It makes no sense to me that it's still cold even when the sun is out."

Rikke laughed, the sound of it warm even in her depressed state. "Don't let the locals fool you, even the most grizzled of men feel the cold. But you have to admit, she's a beautiful country. It's such a shame to see her torn apart like this."

She dropped her eyes back to her chalice. Iden watched her face. She recognized the expression burdening her brow because she had endured it herself. It was the reticence of a conflicted soldier who was just beginning to doubt their allegiance.

Rikke cleared her throat. "Are you from the Summerset Isl- I mean, Alinor?"

"Don't worry, doesn't matter a bit to me what anyone calls it. But yes, from a port city on the northern coast of the main island. I used to spend hours at the harbor, watching the ships and talking to the sailors."

Rikke nodded. "Wanted to travel?"

"I did. More than anything."

"Do you miss home?"

Iden paused. "I do, sometimes," she finally admitted. "I miss the forests, and warm water. And silly things, like silk. You Nords don't wear much silk."

"That we don't. Does your... I mean, can you-"

Rikke trailed off but Iden regarded her kindly. "My position does afford me the privilege to travel, but only when ordered to do so."

She did not even have to lie about that. The Thalmor had indeed shipped her all over the continent when she had been serving them.

Rikke shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her chalice as she took a drink. "I understand that, a little. I joined the Empire because I wanted to see more of Tamriel than just my little village. And I did, but it was usually the worst of it. War isn't quite the sight-seeing tour I believed it would be. Still, sometimes I wish I hadn't accepted the promotion to Legate, because it means I'm stuck within these walls unless they need my sword. I don't get to see the world outside of Solitude much anymore. I just hear about it from our scouts. And what they see are ransacked homes, burned crops and butchered livestock. Towns under siege. Fathers and sons and mothers and daughters killed fighting for what they believe in, sometimes even on opposite sides. I fought in the war in Cyrodiil. I saw things there that I'd never want to see again. But it's different when it's in your homeland. When it's the country against itself. I don't know if it's worse, but it's different."

Rikke lapsed into deep thought and Iden suddenly regretted staying after that ghastly monologue. It seemed unfair that she should see a fine and clearly dedicated woman like this at her worst and she did not know what to say. She took another drink. And then another. Her mind suddenly drifted to the guardsman. She recalled how her own cheek had felt against the block at Helgen, the blood from the rebel before her still warm on her neck. She remembered thinking, at that moment, that she had finally gotten what she deserved.

She gulped down more wine along with the memory. Rikke refilled her chalice without a pause and continued to orate.

"If I were a proper soldier, I wouldn't have taken time off. This is the first leave I've requested since I joined up. I never felt like I needed to."

"Every warrior needs time for themselves," Iden advised, feeling slightly more relaxed. If there was one area she was comfortable in, it was convincing otherwise responsible, singularly-minded women to take care of themselves, and by extension, to focus their attention on her, for at least a while.

But Rikke was not having it and the self-persecution continued uninterrupted. "And that I agreed to the Thalmor's little service. I'm ashamed of myself, Lorana. I'll admit it."

Iden had to stop herself from asking who Lorana was and instead reached a hand over and tucked one of Rikke's braids behind her ear. One of her tricks meant to ease a troubled mind. Rikke did not lean into her hand, but she did not pull away either. Not so ashamed to not want to be touched, Iden noted triumphantly, but she herself was not entirely aware of what she was doing and continued to pat her head like she might a loyal hound.

"I truly believe in the strength of our Empire," Rikke said after a long while, her words beginning to slur as the topic shifted to one she was comfortable with: parroting the speeches of her superiors. "In my heart, my gut, I know it. A united front is the only way we can-"

She stopped, catching herself as if she had just remembered who she was speaking to. Iden, a touchy drunk and a lightweight who was becoming increasingly sympathetic to this heavy-hearted warrior, slid herself closer and put her hand on Rikke's arm. The slight movement made her briefly dizzy. "Don't worry," she managed, pitching forward in her attempt to reach Rikke's ear, as if she were sharing state secrets. "I've no love for the Dominion. I just worked for them."

Rikke nodded, too far gone to care much at all or to catch Iden's slip of the tongue. She hiccuped. "Then you know. I worry every day about whether we're doing the right thing, forcing Skyrim into the Empire. So many of our old laws, our traditions... they just don't mesh with the Empire's way of doing things. It's like, like a pride of lions trying to rule over a pack of wolves. The language isn't the same. But if Skyrim was a free nation, there's no way it could protect itself from the Thalmor. They're too... they're just too good at what they do. But Ulfric has no idea. You'd think he would, but he doesn't. He really believes that if his faith is strong enough that he can't lose, not against us and not against the elves, but he's wrong."

Iden could have told her that she was right, that she knew firsthand the lengths they would go to for victory, but she did not, partly because doing so would admit that she was much more than what she was pretending to be, and because it would also perhaps break Rikke's heart worse than it already was.

"Ulfric and I used to be friends," Rikke said suddenly, the mood shifting yet again, her tone mournful. "And Galmar too, when we were in the Legion together. But after Ulfric was captured, he was never the same, and when he left Galmar left with him. I stayed. Of course I stayed. It was the only way. But sometimes I wonder..."

She shook her head, her jaw clenched. When she spoke again her voice was thick. "Sometimes I wish I'd left too. Maybe dying side by side with men who truly believe in what they're fighting for would be better than all this doubt."

Iden swallowed a hard lump in her throat. A few of her own compatriots within the Thalmor had deserted well before she had. They were not her friends, because it was easier to forget them if she did not think of them like but. Almost all of them had been caught and those that were not killed outright were tried and executed for treason. But she had watched them die proudly. She herself had held on to the bitter end. She still wished that she had left sooner.

In the lull between words Iden had slumped into Rikke's side and her hand, which had been on her forearm, was resting on her thigh. Rikke had been steadily refilling their chalices from open bottles she kept on the table beside them. Iden openly studied her profile, her head sort of propped on her shoulder. She looked older than she probably actually was. Iden knew of her burdens. Her own chest felt tight and when she blinked she was, from previous drunken experience, not at all surprised to find that she was crying.

Rikke looked up and met her gaze. Her own eyes were glassy and a little red. Her outline was slightly blurred around the edges. They were both catastrophically drunk. "I'm sorry," she muttered thickly. She tried to wipe the tears off Iden's cheek but missed and thumbed her nose instead. "You didn't come here to listen to the problems of a troubled soldier."

It was a wonder that Iden could decipher the jumble of syllables that dropped from her mouth, but her gaze flicked down to Rikke's lips. She leaned forward and very gently kissed her, or at least attempted to, because her mouth landed on her chin. "I know what you mean. Better than you think."

Rikke did not question that. She was beyond being capable of doing so and perhaps she simply had not understood what Iden had said. Instead, she leaned back in. The kiss was sloppy and their mouths tasted of wine and salt. Rikke sort of wobbled into Iden, her hands landing flat on her breasts as they both lost their balance and rolled from the couch and onto the floor, and the whole messy affair only went downhill from that point onward.

Much later, a woman who was really named Lorana would show up at Rikke's door. She would knock, first gently, and then insistently, and then, after about ten minutes, she would give up with a huff, cursing the wasted trip and the Empire as a whole. 


	11. Nilsine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter thus far that has some degree of smut. I feel safe keeping the rating at M, but if you disagree please let me know.

Iden stood outside the ostensibly named Palace of the Kings idly wondering what she was going to do with herself that evening. Her negotiation with Ulfric had gone much smoother than the one with Tullius. While he was leery of the idea that an elf of any sort was the fabled Dragonborn, and she could detect more than just a hint of jealousy from him, he recognized her from Helgen and had the utmost respect for the Greybeards, so convincing him to attend the council was a simple enough matter, even with all the posturing and the protests of his second-in-command. But now she was in a city which was a hard contrast to Solitude, and based on the unfriendly glances she was earning from the locals, her kind was not welcome. She suddenly wished that she had not left Lydia at Whiterun, because even though her skills as a housecarl sometimes left something to be desired, she was an amusing drinking companion and would stand up for her in a fight. But alas, poor Iden was alone in what she considered, by far, to be the worst city she had visited thus far. It was hostile and grey and covered in ice and was cold enough to make her yearn for the stone beds of Markarth.

She sniffed, feeling sorry for herself. The thought of spending the night alone in a chilly bed at yet another inn held no appeal to her. She wandered around the city aimlessly, taking in the sights, of which there were very few. The so-called "House of Curiosities" was a glorified tourist trap filled with worthless junk and the New Gninnis Cornerclub, despite the exotic name, reeked of sujama and pungent spices native to lands foreign to her, and the Dunmer sequestered within were downtrodden and suspicious even of a fellow elf and regarded her with little friendliness, so she finished one drink and made herself scarce.

She drifted unhappily towards the market, silently complaining to the divines since only they were there to listen, so her mind was elsewhere and she did not notice that there was someone coming towards her until the moment of impact.

"Oh!" said a voice, feminine and soft, a flurry of petals briefly filling the space between the two of them before falling to the ground silent as the snow that immediately began to dust over them. _Flowers_ , Iden noted with surprise, and turned her eyes to the being whom she had collided with.

"I'm so sorry," the girl said as she dropped to her knees and gently gathered up the flowers, placing them in the basket held at the crook of her arm. "My head, it's not where it-"

She paused as she met Iden's curious gaze, and then she blushed and looked back down at her basket. "-not where it should be."

"The fault is entirely mine," Iden insisted, kneeling to help her and immediately rescinding any complaints she had made to herself previously, because fate had turned in her favor and for today she was a lucky woman indeed. "I do hope you can forgive my clumsiness."

She offered her a chivalrous hand up off the ground and studied her face. Delicately featured and pretty. A proper lady. Then she eyed the dirty patches on her clothes where her knees had pressed against the wet stone. "And your dress! I've made a bit of a mess of you, I'm afraid."

The maiden shook her head, still blushing. "No, no, please don't worry about it. They're just flowers, and it's just a dress. I don't mind it."

"An admirable attitude," Iden replied, offering a small bow. "I'm Iden."

"Nilsine," she breathed, "Nilsine Shatter-Shield."

Iden peered at the basket. "Flowers. What a lovely thing in a place like this. And such a delight to see that their bearer is just as lovely."

Nilsine smiled. "That's kind of you to say. Even with my dirty knees."

Iden returned the grin, thrilled with the turn her day had taken. She adored courtship, showering blushing damsels with gentle praise and sweetness. And this one, like the flowers she carried, bloomed so beautifully with just a bit of care.

"Are you selling those?" Iden asked, gesturing at the basket.

Nilsine shook her head, her radiance dimming beneath a smile that waned. "No, they're for my twin sister. She, well, she passed away a few months ago. She... she was murdered."

A ghastly but not unusual thing to hear. It seemed to Iden as though the people of this country moved from tragedy to tragedy as if they were going out of style. "I'm so sorry, did they catch who was responsible?" she asked, arranging her features into an expression that could adequately convey sympathy and appropriate interest. It was not as though she did not feel genuine sorrow for this poor girl, but more that this added another factor to her machinations, one that she had to take into careful consideration as she moved forward.

A thought briefly crossed her mind, how she had once described the Thalmor as opportunistic predators. It became starkly evident to her that she was also describing herself.

She quickly tucked that away.

"No, they haven't yet. They think it was just a thief who took it too far. I don't know if I believe that at all. But thank you, it's been hard," Nilsine admitted. Then she paused, biting her lip. "This is going to sound very strange, and maybe I shouldn't even ask it of you, but-"

"Please, whatever you need," Iden reassured her. "It's the least I could do after nearly barreling you over and sullying your dress."

Nilsine's small smile widened slightly. "Usually my mother comes with me to the Hall of the Dead to see Friga, and to change out her flowers, but she's not well today, and I... I don't really want to be alone down there. I know we just met, but it would mean a lot to me you would come with me, if you aren't busy. I'd have to ask my father otherwise, and he, well..."

Iden dipped her head. "I'd be honored."

They walked side by side through the market and towards the graveyard, making small talk. Nilsine seemed anxious and kept toying with the flowers and messing with her hair, only ceasing once they reached the catacombs.

The air inside was musty and smelled thickly of dust and embalming fluid but not of rot, for which Iden was grateful. They walked further down the halls, the hazey yellow light of the candles guiding them past what seemed like endless rows of departed souls.

"Here," Nilsine murmured, her voice low out of respect, stopping before a coffin that looked no different from any other save for the vase of dried flowers at the base. Nilsine knelt down and removed the wilted stems, replacing them with the fresh ones. She arranged them carefully, making sure that the vivid Dragon's Tongue was the focal point.

"It was Friga's favorite," she said of the orchid, gingerly touching the petals. "It was like her, too. Bold and colorful. We may have looked just the same, but she was so different from me."

She straightened and stood beside Iden, her eyes on her sister's coffin. "It's been difficult, even months later. My mother is so consumed by grief that all she can do is drink during the day and then go to sleep. And my father, he tells us we should just move on, like it's so simple, but really he's just as devastated as mother is, so he works all the time. Sometimes he spends the night at his office so he doesn't have to see what it's done to her."

Nilsine glanced at Iden. "Have you ever lost anyone close to you?"

"I haven't," Iden answered, far too quickly.

Nilsine nodded and turned her eyes away. "I know just one death doesn't matter much compared to all the others. Not when there's a war on. But watching how my parents have handled it, it makes me wonder how people who have lost so much more keep going."

"What about you?" Iden asked.

Nilsine looked at her. "Me?"

"Yes, you. What of your grief? You can't think of only your mother and father. You have to consider yourself too. Being stoic isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Nilsine shrugged and looked away. "Oh, I'm alright now. I miss her. I'll always miss her. When she was killed it felt like a piece of me died too. I cried for weeks. But now I'm trying to live my life more like she would have. Being braver, taking chances. It's why I asked you to come with me today."

"Is that so?" Iden asked, quirking a brow.

But Nilsine simply blushed. "Let's leave. I'll come see her again tomorrow."

Iden followed her outside and back through the graveyard. Windhelm was a strangely designed city: high walls and narrow passes on either side of the palace made for an almost labyrinth-like layout so Iden did not think to ask Nilsine where they were going as they weaved their way through the hold. They came to a stop in front of a large, handsome home in what was clearly a well-to-do quarter of the city, a far cry from the slums just on the other side.

"This is me," Nilsine said shyly.

Iden bowed, assuming after what Nilsine had shared with her that a night of frivolity was not in the cards and that she was being dismissed. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, even under the circumstances. I do hope to see you again sometime, and-"

"Would you like to come in?" Nilsine blurted suddenly.

Iden's response was less than perfectly eloquent. "What?"

Nilsine looked down at her feet. "I'm asking if you'd like to come inside with me."

Iden nodded, her eyes wide. "That's what I thought you said. You're much more forward than what I ever would have given you credit for, Lady Shatter-Shield."

Nilsine was blushing furiously. "It's- I only-"

"I'm not refusing you, dear," Iden laughed, "I'm simply surprised. You keep doing that to me."

Poor Nilsine was beside herself with embarrassment. "It's just- this is something Friga would have done. Spend an evening with a perfect stranger. Do something just to do it. I always envied her boldness."

Iden regarded her kindly. "I don't think it can be said by anyone that Nilsine Shatter-Shield is not bold. But are you sure? You've had a trying few months and I'd hate to take advantage of your grief."

"I can think for myself," Nilsine said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And I just need to- I want..."

"It's alright," Iden said gently, needing no further convincing. "I know what you want."

"And I know you do too," Nilsine said, reaching up and lightly running the tips of her fingers along the edge of Iden's jaw. "So there's no reason to play cool."

Iden was once more caught unprepared. The woman standing before her now was so unlike the girl she had run into at the market, who blushed at nothing at all and nervously played with her hair. "A-alright then," she stammered.

Nilsine grinned. "Come with me."

Had Iden been paying attention she would have noticed that the home was not only much too large for just one person, but that there was obvious evidence of additional occupants spread throughout the place. She was not paying attention, however, because the moment that they stepped inside Nilsine had her pressed back against the closed door with her mouth and hands as an anchor.

"Lerfler hrm," Iden mumbled against Nilsine's lips.

She pulled away with her brows raised. "What was that?"

"Lovely home," Iden repeated, endeavoring to catch her breath since Nilsine had not yet granted her the chance.

But Nilsine simply laughed and kissed her again. "You're used to being the one who makes all the moves, aren't you?"

Iden shrugged helplessly. "That's a bit more normal for me, yes."

"Friga used to tell me about the kisses she had, with men and women, and how they touched each other, what it felt like," Nilsine said breathlessly as they made their way slowly up the stairs. "I was always too shy to do anything like that. But not anymore."

Several seconds passed as Iden attempted, between surprisingly insistent kisses, to process what Nilsine meant by that last statement.

"Wait, are you saying you're a virgin?" Iden asked as it clicked, her voice several octaves higher as she pulled away with a distraught expression. "Nilsine, exactly how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four. More than old enough to make decisions on my own," she said, a defensive edge to her voice.

Iden faltered. "You are, I just... do you really want your first time to be with a stranger?"

Nilsine gave her a look. "Why do you care?"

Nilsine's question rang like an accusation and gave Iden pause. Why did she care? At twenty-four Iden was helping to topple an Empire and had a kill count nearly double her age. A revelation like this had never stopped her before, and sheltered or not, grieving or not, Nilsine was indeed more than old enough to decide this for herself.

But Nilsine saw her continued hesitation and glanced down at the ground. "Is it me?" she asked quietly.

Iden quickly shook her head. "No, of course not. You're beautiful. And a tiny bit terrifying. Perfect, really."

"Then just let me touch you. Please. You don't even have to do anything if you don't want."

This was heartbreaking, Iden thought to herself with a sigh. For the both of them. Someone was quite literally throwing herself at her and yet her clothes were still on. This Dragonborn business was doing a number on her sensibilities.

So finally she nodded and Nilsine impatiently kissed her and guided her back into a bedroom. She was quick to pull away Iden's armor and with her assistance they were soon both stark naked and shivering, but once they stood there, laid bare, it was painfully clear that Nilsine had no idea what to do next.

Iden sat down on the bed, propped upright on the pillows, and beckoned her over. "Come here."

She obeyed eagerly, allowing Iden to position her so that she was straddling one of Iden's legs, the other just barely pressing against the juncture of her thighs. Nilsine sat there a while, her hands locked at her sides, staring blankly at Iden's body as if she had never seen another person before. Iden found this terribly endearing and bit down a chuckle as she took one of Nilsine's hands and laid it on her breast, the girl's eyes becoming huge. Iden brushed her thumb along the underside of one of Nilsine's own breasts and then carefully grazed her nipple with the tip of her finger. Nilsine twitched and caught on immediately, mimicking the motion.

"That's good," Iden murmured, her uncertainty melting away beneath the cautious ministrations that grew steadily bolder. Nilsine responded well to the praise and kissed her mouth and jaw and down along her throat, letting out a little gasp as she leaned forward and rubbed herself against Iden's thigh.

Iden lowered her hands to Nilsine's hips, urging her to continue. "Just like that," she encouraged, her own voice growing a little hoarse with Nilsine's own thigh pressing into the warmth between her legs each time she rocked back.

Nilsine nodded, her eyes shut as she grabbed onto Iden's shoulders, clutching her close as she rode her and releasing a plaintive whine when Iden reached a hand between them. She slid against her fingertips easily, warm and responsive, and Iden felt heat bloom low in her belly. Based on Nilsine's little gasps she guessed that she was close.

"I, I think I'm-"

Iden kissed the corner of her mouth. "Come, then."

Nilsine's thighs tensed and she began to tremble. A door opened and closed downstairs. They both froze. Iden's hand was still nestled between Nilsine's legs as she met her eyes in horror. "Who is that?"

"Nilsine?" a woman's voice called. "Nilsine? Are you home?"

"Oh. My mother," Nilsine said, looking much less concerned than Iden thought she should.

"Your mother?" Iden hissed, frowning when Nilsine clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh. I thought she was still going to be at the tavern. I didn't think she'd be home this early," she whispered, and then, after a short pause, she resumed rocking against Iden's leg once more.

"Nilsine?" the woman called again, closer than before.

"Just took a bath, mother, I'm getting dressed but I'll come out shortly," she said between gasps, sounding every bit as if she had just completed a marathon. Nilsine's hand was still over her mouth but Iden's expression was frantic as she attempted to come to terms with the predicament she had found herself in.

"A bath? In the middle of the afternoon?" her mother said, slightly slurred, but now clearly standing just outside Nilsine's door. Iden racked her brain as she attempted to remember whether it was locked or not.

"Got a little- ah- dirty when I was out by Kynesgrove picking flowers this- oh! this morning."

Nilsine's lips were parted, her eyes glazed and her brow furrowed as if in pain but Iden knew that look. It was the expression of a person so singularly focused on the need for release that reality was a secondary concern. Iden stared at her desperately and silently pleaded with her to keep quiet but Nilsine came with a high gasp that was just hardly muffled against Iden's neck. They sat there a while, Iden's heart beating nearly as furiously as Nilsine's. She shut her eyes, relieved that it was over. Then she felt a hand gently press between her thighs.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of the situation, the fact that Nilsine's mother was literally standing feet away from them, having a conversation with her daughter while she circled her fingers around Iden's clit, but her climax was sudden, powerful, and entirely unexpected, and she did a poor job of silencing herself as she shuddered and came against Nilsine's hand.

"Are you feeling alright?" her mother asked.

"Just a small cough, you know how those flowers make me sneeze" Nilsine said, dismounting and calmly wiping her fingers on the covers. Iden staggered out of bed on shaky legs and swiftly clothed herself, asking herself all the while what in blazes was wrong with her.

"The drop from the window isn't too high, and no one will see you," Nilsine whispered between the dialogue she had continued to have with her mother. Some conversation about nothing important, the trivial topics that were covered by people who were trying and failing to live normally after loss.

Iden did not question jumping out of the window. She had spent all afternoon trying to catch up to somebody who drastically outclassed her and who was constantly two steps ahead, so this newest development was par for the course. She was so bewildered by her circumstances that she did not even think so simply cast invisibility and walk right out the front door. But a hand on her shoulder made her pause on the balcony as she climbed out and made to drop.

Nilsine leaned forward and gave her one more kiss, quick and chaste. "You said you didn't want to take advantage of my grief. Truth is, I took advantage of yours. Thank you, Iden. I hope I see you again. And I hope you find what you're looking for the same as I have."

"My grief? What I'm looking for?" Iden asked, overwhelmed by it all. But Nilsine just smiled like she knew something Iden did not.

"It was your eyes. I know you were lying about having never lost someone you cared about when I asked you, because your eyes look like mine did."

And with that, Nilsine closed the window.

Iden dropped down, landing on her feet and crouching into the side of the wall, only standing upright as she edged around the corner. Perfect timing, because as she was so gracefully sneaking along the corridor she ran smack into a Stormcloak guardswoman who, unlike Nilsine, did not seem to appreciate the contact at all.

"Careful, elf," she intoned in a voice full of malice as she rested her hand on the hilt of her axe. "I could have assault charges brought against you for less than that."

Iden, still somewhat out of sorts after her ordeal, attempted to flash a fine smile and instead grimaced at her. "My apologies, guardswoman. I'm a visitor, and-"

The guard waved her off dismissively and continued her rounds. Iden watched her go and spared a final glance at Nilsine's window. No face was there to witness her flight.

She walked towards the inn, feeling strangely dejected. All in all this had been a successful afternoon for her. Startling and weird but far from a failure, yet she only registered a hollow sort of notion within her as she opened the door to the tavern and stepped inside.

"Come on in, empty stool at the counter if you'd like some stew,"called the proprietress, who upon looking up seemed surprised to see an elf, but after a moment she shrugged.

"Eh, you're the alright type of pointy-ear, as long as you can pay, and your kind usually can," she said earnestly.

"How very magnanimous of you," Iden said, too distracted to get uppity about the insult.

"What did you just call me?"

Footsteps came down the stairs behind them, along with amused laughter. "She called you generous, Elda. No need to be offended."

Iden turned to the voice. Young and pretty, showing off a lot of skin. She winked at Iden as she moved behind the bar and began to pour mugs of mead.

Elda harrumphed. "Why didn't she just say that then. _Magaminus_ , my arse. Coming in here holding forth like she thinks she's the damn queen, all high and mighty."

But then she eyed the waitress's tray with a hawkish gaze, as if divining from the contents where they were headed. "Susanna, that bottle of bloodwine isn't for Adonato is it? He still hasn't paid up his last tab and unless he's finally finished that play of his I don't know how he plans to."

"Oh Elda, don't worry, I'll make sure he pays," Susanna said with a simpering little grin. "I always do, don't I?"

Elda grumbled but did not argue. Susanna regarded Iden with a different sort of grin. "Want to come upstairs? It's certainly warmer, and our bard beats all."

"She's fine, for a greyskin," Elda conceded, wiping down the counter.

"I'd like that," Iden said. "May I go ahead and pay for a room?"

"You _may_ , my lady," Elda mocked, taking Iden's coin, counting it twice, and then jerking her chin down the hall. "Second door on the left. Sheets are clean. Just be out by tomorrow morning."  
  
Iden followed Susanna up the stairs towards the gentle notes of a well-played lute. The place was fairly empty, only two other men on the scene, one of which was clearly a mercenary for hire, and the other was hunched in agony over a mess of papers, a dry quill in his hand. Iden took a seat by the fire and watched the flames, starting when a hand touched her shoulder.

"Can I get you a drink?" Susanna asked, quirking a brow. "Seems like you could use one."

"Am I truly so obvious?" Iden sighed, and Susanna gently laughed.

"A little harried, that's all. And, well..."

She pointed at her neck. Iden raised a hand and touched a spot that was slightly sore. A love-bite. She sighed again.

"It's not too bad," Susanna said. "Nothing a bit of mead or wine won't remedy, I'm sure."

"You don't think our illustrious writer over there would mind if I imbibed some of his bloodwine, do you?"

Susanna did not say a word as she poured Iden a glass directly from the unfortunate fellow's bottle. She winked as she handed it to her. "He won't notice. He's been stuck on the same sentence of that play of his for three days now."

"How much?" Iden asked, fishing for her purse.

"It's on the house if you tell me who gave you that," Susanna said, pointing at Iden's throat with a wicked grin.

"Hmm, I don't kiss and tell, but if you can guess then I'll tip you double the cost of the bottle. You only get one try though."

"Well, that's not very magnanimous of you at all," Susanna said, though she studied the mark as if she were an investigator and it key evidence. Then she leaned forward and sniffed her.

"Ah! Nilsine," she said triumphantly. "Didn't think she had it in her, poor girl. But it looks like she took you to task, didn't she?"

Iden stared at her. "How did-"

"Flowers. You smell like flowers and dust. She took you to see her sister, didn't she? Where one flower withers, another blooms to take its place... well, that's a nice bit of wordplay. Maybe I should be the writer. Perhaps it's cruel to say it, but Nilsine lived in Friga's shadow for as long as I can remember. I'm happy she might have the chance to find herself. Or at least find pleasure in women like you who get in over their pretty heads."

Iden made a helpless gesture. "I suppose I'm glad to be of service."

Susanna laughed again. "Very noble. But I'd be careful if I were you. The women of this country are deadly nightshade masquerading as daisies. They're skilled actresses. Like the characters in Adonato's play. And like you."

She walked away then, a fat fistful of the promised coin burdening her pockets, leaving Iden feeling like she had been put through the ringer. She wondered if this is how they felt, the women she devoted herself to for an hour, an evening, a day, like an act in a story that had, almost always, come to an end on her terms. She was not sure if age was making her soft, or if this dragon nonsense was messing with her mind, but she retired that evening to the cold bed which she had been dreading with hardly a complaint, adrift from her moorings and plagued by questions she had forgotten the answers to.


End file.
